


Compromised (the art of being unmade)

by foolondahill17



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Gen, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha-centric, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Unrequited Love, sunken ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, now that we’re no longer trying to kill each other… Natasha Romanoff, I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Laura Barton.” Or, the love story of Laura and Clint as seen through the eyes of Natasha Romanoff, who is certainly not in love with Clint herself. A series of vignettes chronicling Natasha and Clint’s relationship (or lack thereof, darn you AoU). Contains - at intervals - adventure, angst, and whump. Sister piece to Red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Art of Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for mild swearing and violence. 
> 
> A touch lighter-hearted than Red, but it still has an ample serving the angst and darkness that makes up Natasha’s psyche, including reference to the death of children as depicted in Red. Which, btw, you might want to read as it gives a richer background to some of the chapters in this story, but probably isn’t exactly life-or-death imperative.
> 
> Even though I have some serious problems with what Whedon did to my favorite Avengers couple, this story came out of my pen at one o’clock in the morning and I couldn’t stop myself because unrequited-love!Natasha was actually a strangely alluring prospect (no worries, Black Widow, master assassin as she is, refused to get overly mushy). Ergo, yes, this is cannon compliant to AoU with just a wee bit of delicate tweaking in an attempt to rectify the horrid wreck the AoU iceberg left floating in the water that was once the Clintasha Titanic. 
> 
> Oh yes, I've even fit Bruce in here somewhere. And Steve. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

"Romanoff," said Barton, sideling up to Natasha and matching her brisk pace with his own curiously graceful slouch, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargo pants, the faint swishing noise of the fabric rubbing together his arrival's only announcement.

Natasha didn't answer him. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. His dusty blond hair, as usual, was carefully molded into spikes atop his head in what he surely hoped would come across as a devil-may-care look. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves torn off, revealing his heavily muscled, sculpted arms. His feet, clad in combat boots, made no noise on the white linoleum floor as he walked.

Barton looked over and his upper lip quirked in a faint smirk that told Natasha he knew that she'd had been watching him. _Well?_ He seemed to ask her. She felt her lip curl in a sneer before she could stop herself but still she didn't say anything.

_Well, what, Barton?_

"Headed anywhere special?" said Barton. He seemed to have an annoying habit of not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.

"Fury tell you to keep tabs on me?" Romanoff asked instead. Mr. Eyepatch himself, the top dog in these parts. Probably the one who'd ordered her head on a platter in the first place. Also the one who's scissors were poised on the very thin and fraying thread of her continued existence.

She'd met him only once, in the empty, save for a blanketed cot, pristinely white holding cell she'd been led into before being released from the cuffs on her wrists (Barton, she recalled, hadn't been the one to cuff her). She'd been able to think of ten ways to kill him before the trail of his black trench coat had cleared the threshold (1. Strangle him with the blanket, 2. Smother him with the overly plush pillow, 3. Choke him with the strap of his own eyepatch).

He'd demanded to her in Russian what exactly she expected from SHIELD. She'd answered back in her native tongue that she expecting them to kill her. Whereupon he answered in English, "Sorry, Red, don't speak the language."

"Can't a body ask an innocent question?" said Barton, yanking Natasha abruptly back to the present.

"The bodies I've met never did," Natasha murmured, so low she doubted Barton could hear her. His auditory perception, she had noticed, didn't seem to be nearly as attuned as his ocular. Had she been in any position to tell him, she'd have suggested he work on that, try shooting at moving targets with a blindfold on, seeing if he could track their movement accurately with just his sense of hearing. It didn't do to ever become too reliant on any one skillset. If there had been anything drilled incessantly into their minds in the Red Room it was to be versatile and thereby unpredictable. Had she ever the opportunity to go against him in the field, she'd have gone right for his eyes – if she couldn't get a clear shot at his jugular, that is.

They wound through the white walled, white floored, and white lit section of the SHIELD base that surrounded the living courters and broke onto a series of steel catwalks and corridors shrouded in more shadows. Natasha liked it better here. Yes, it was harder to read Barton's expression in the dim light then blank fluorescent but it would also be harder for him to read hers.

They walked in silence, passing a handful of agents and crisp looking SHIELD employees wearing attire that varied from business casual to tight black spandex drenched in sweat from training. Their heads swiveled on their necks to follow her as she passed and eyes bore into the back of her head accusingly, wondering why she hadn't been thrown into a maximum security prison yet or sent to the electric chair. Some met her gaze head-on (most darting away again as quickly as they came). Others even fondled firearms or knives strapped to their belts, ugly curses muttered under their breath and twisting their lips into scowls.

She followed their movements carefully, calculating how quickly it would take her to retrieve the knife she had hidden in her sock and chuck it between their eyes as opposed to how many seconds longer it would take Mr. Cowlick to cock his gun or Ms. Cherry-Red-Lipstick to remember she was supposed to duck.

She had swiped the knife after the latest of the numerous aptitude tests she'd been made to endure over the past three weeks, along with psych evals and health examinations. Natasha had noted with interest that, while making up their mind of whether or not they were going to keep her, SHIELD hadn't wanted her skills to get rusty. Mostly her many assessments and evaluations had been overseen by Barton – along with Mr. Eyepatch, Mr. Clipboard, and Ms. Flat-Chest-and-Steaming-Coffee from behind one-way mirrors and over balcony railings, faces too far away to distinguish any particular features. She'd found the tests to be unexplainably frustrating.

She wasn't a damned rookie and SHIELD knew it.

"So," Barton started as though weighing his words carefully, "Just came from a briefing with Coulson. Some arms dealer in Nicaragua."

Natasha didn't say anything. Wherever Barton was going with this he'd get there in time, with or without prompting from her.

Shame really. She wished he'd just shut up.

Instead she thought of Coulson, Mr. Clipboard, Barton's handler, who'd nearly burst a blood vessel when Barton had arrived at the Quinjet with her in toe when she was supposed to be already attracting flies in that alley. Coulson didn't seem capable in opening showing emotions on that blank canvass face of his, but Natasha could still tell he'd rather she was decomposing under the hot sun then living in the same building as him.

"It's a pretty run-of-the-mill operation but – well – you've got to start somewhere. If you'd like to tag along…."

Natasha tuned rapidly back into Barton's voice, worked hard not to let it show on her face how much his words had captured her attention, and caught her off-guard.

"You're asking me to come?"

Barton shrugged, "It'd be a good way for Fury to truly evaluate you in the field, find out exactly where you fit in –"

"Whether or not I'm going to turn around and stick my knife in his other eye?"

"Well, yeah," Barton shrugged again and Natasha thought she could detect a hint of amusement in his voice, "That too."

"I don't know Barton," said Natasha gruffly. "I've never been a fan of being babysat. Least of all by you."

"To tell you the truth it isn't exactly how I'd like to spend my time either, Romanoff," Barton answered. "But Fury isn't a big fan of blind faith so that means someone has to watch you and –"

"–You're the only one willing to do it," Natasha finished for him.

"To be perfectly blunt," Barton answered, "willingness didn't have anything to do with it. Fury wants me to have a taste of my own medicine."

Natasha didn't have anything to say to that. They walked in silence for a moment. The metal floor clanged softly with each of her footsteps, not that she was trying particularly hard to walk silently.

"You're going to have to decide sometime, Romanoff," Barton sighed. "Can't keep leaching off SHIELD benefits forever. I mean, nice as they are…"

There was a teasing lilt to Barton's tone that set Natasha's teeth on edge. She took a deep breath, trying to soothe herself. Usually people who used that kind of tone of voice with her ended up with a knife wedged between their shoulder blades.

"I wasn't aware that was my choice," Natasha answered stiffly, eyes trained straight ahead, tracing the scratched surface in the metal floor, scuffed by rolling carts and women's high heels.

"Come on, Romanoff," Barton rolled his eyes in a way that was irritatingly charismatic, almost engaging, as though he was trying to goad her into snarking at him. Or smiling. "Don't think I haven't realized why you take a different route to the cafeteria each day. You've probably scouted out more exits to this place in three weeks than I have in three years. You could leave any time you'd like and we couldn't stop you – even if we wanted to try."

The way he said we like it was an inseparable entity rather than a body made of detachable parts and individuals with all their separate agendas. Natasha wondered if a person could really be so credulous. Damned tool.

Then again, Agent Barton did not strike her as inexperienced, nor incredibly naïve.

"You're telling me you'd let me just walk out?"

Barton shrugged, muscles of his back rippling under the cotton of his tank top, pulled tight over his shoulders. "The doors in this place are supposed to work both ways. Land of the free and all. That's sort of the point of America. We can't very well have disgruntled employees working behind our desks. Might foster a negative work environment."

Natasha almost snorted at the ridiculous patriotism of it all, or perhaps Barton's incongruent suggesting that an employee disgruntled enough to slit the director's throat while he slept qualified as a negative work environment.

"Don't make me laugh, Barton," Natasha said. "Everything has a price. Freedom the highest of all." Even the Red Room had made it clear that Mother Russia would only do for you as much as you were willing to do for Mother Russia.

"What's your price, Romanoff?"

"What's SHIELD's?" she asked levelly, coming to a stop and wheeling to face him. He mirrored her almost perfectly, turning on his heel as she did, eyes finding and holding her own.

Barton didn't bother shrugging this time, but the air of dismissal was clear in his voice, "I guess just your word that you won't go back to the career path I interrupted you in. Or, if you can't promise that, then the understanding that the next time I don't stop to ask questions before I let my arrow fly."

Natasha kept her face flat and expressionless, but she wanted to frown. Incredulous was a look she'd perfected. "So I'm to understand you won't be burying an arrow between my shoulders when I walk out of the door? Rather, you expect me to believe that? And don't give me any bull about not shooting people when their back is turned, Barton."

"You can believe anything you'd like Romanoff," said Barton. "But believe this. You walk out now, you're never coming back in unless we want to experiment on your corpse."

"Real convincing recruiting spiel," said Romanoff dryly. "But that's taking for granted my greatest wish is to not be dead. You already know that's not true. The real question you haven't answered yet. What's in it for me?"

"Try this one on for size then," said Barton. The color of his eyes was strange, once gray, then blue, then green. They now looked almost wholly black, swallowed by pupils enlarged in the dim lighting that reflected dully off the gray steel floors and walls. "You're right. Freedom isn't free. Someone's got to pay for it and I sure as hell don't think it should be a bunch of innocent civilians, and neither does SHIELD. We've got a long list of debts and an even longer memory and our aim is to make sure the right people pay collect. And it's a damn sight more satisfying than racking up the bills yourself. So what do you say, Romanoff? Take it or leave it, this is your final chance to wash some of that red you've written into your own ledger."

"What makes you think I want to wash it out?" _What makes you think that's even possible?_ Natasha had to fight to keep the words from leaping out of her esophagus. She tried to ignore how deeply her heart was hammering in her chest. _Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance, Barton? I wasn't fighting you. I was willing to let you do it. What made you stop? What could you have possibly seen that made you think I could be worth it?_

The right side of Clint's lips curled upward ever-so-slightly, digging into his cheek in what couldn't quite be called a smile, "When I faced you in that alley, Romanoff, you didn't even reach for your knife, even though you could have had it spinning into my forehead before I'd finished nocking my arrow. I'd only ever seen that kind of submission in a person of your caliber once before – in a crummy dive south of the Rio Grande with about a pint of whisky in him – and I swear to God it was like looking in a mirror."

He paused, not breaking eye-contact. Natasha half wished she would. She was almost angry at herself for somehow lacking the strength to pull away by herself. There was an unexpected candor in his voice and Natasha was taken aback. After all, in their profession, vulnerability was a weakness that meant almost certain death. For him to suddenly let down his guard to her, still as much of an enemy as she had been when her face had shown up at the top of his hit list, it was akin to giving her the handle of a blade already pressed to his windpipe. Then again, there was no possible way Natasha could tell whether or not he was being genuine. It could all be an act. Natasha had been playing this game long enough to recognize a fellow artist if not his actual craft.

"How can I trust you, Barton?" Natasha asked finally, voice sinking to a whisper. "How can I trust any of this?"

"You've been running all your life, Romanoff. I know myself the kind of exhaustion that kind of lifestyle breeds. I'll even take a gander that it was that same exhaustion that kept you from reaching for your own weapon when I confronted you in Sao Paulo. It was certainly what made me stay my own."

Natasha shook her head. "You were sent there to kill me, Barton. You've probably knocked up a list of marks at this place that rivals my own. What makes SHIELD any different from the Red Room?"

"The knowledge that at least if you have to kill someone you're killing the right person, for the right reasons," said Barton quickly, like he'd rehearsed. Like he actually believed it.

"Who figures that out, Barton?" said Natasha, trying to keep the sheen of frustration from coming through her voice. "How can you possibly know the people you're sent to kill deserve it?"

Barton cocked an eyebrow, "Really, Romanoff, I'm supposed to take a lesson of morality from you?"

Natasha didn't answer. She ran her tongue over her teeth. He had a point and she knew it. She had no right to ask these questions, to make these demands. Hazily, achingly, she wished not for the first time in the three week of her strange and uncertain limbo between captivity and safe haven that Barton had embedded his arrow into the back of her neck when she'd first arrived at that alley, blood of her mark and his sixteen-year-old maid still wedged in her fingernails.

"Trust isn't free, either, Romanoff," Barton was whispering now, voice so low Natasha had to strain her ears to hear him. She was half-way annoyed with herself for being unable to walk away. "It might have a price tag even higher than freedom's."

"And you're asking me to pay up?"

"SHIELD has a good credit policy," said Barton with unexpected levity, although his voice was still low and intense. "We're willing to wait if you're willing to give it a try. We could use you Romanoff, if only you'd let us."

Natasha had been tossed around in the gray tide of good and evil for her whole life. She'd been thrown about by the wills of superiors with bigger guns and bigger checkbooks, told where to go, when to eat, what to think since before a time she could remember. This freedom Barton spoke of was unprecedented, beyond comprehension let alone existence. Natasha didn't trust it. She didn't trust anything.

"Besides," he added, softly, lips parting to show a glint of his top row of teeth, "I can almost guarantee that we've got better coffee than anything Russia managed to serve up."

"Well, if you've got coffee," said Natasha, not smiling, not blinking, not moving at all except to stretch out her hand for him to shake, "Show me the dotted line where I can sign my damn name already."

He took her hand in his own, a firm, brisk shake and she could feel his calloused fingers rough on her palm. His lips split into a bigger grin than she had seen those three weeks and it seemed to her that his face had been strangely lacking before, but she couldn't have guessed for what.

"Let's grab a cup of that coffee first. On me, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha nodded, arm falling back to her side. Barton broke eye contact with almost an audible snap and led the way down the hallway.

He said without turning his head over his shoulder, "And then we'll see what we can do about finding you a holster for that knife. Can't imagine it's very comfortable in your sock."


	2. Sharing Things

Natasha breathed slowly through her nose, peering through the grated cover of the air duct, watching the four, black-clad, nondescript henchmen below, who were observing the television screens playing the many security camera feeds surrounding the warehouse but had completely missed her and Barton's entry into the building through the air-conditioning vents.

It had been a pretty good idea, Natasha grudgingly admitted, staring out of the corner of her eye at her partner beside her. Partner – still an alien concept. Natasha wasn't entirely sure how she liked the sound of it yet. She wasn't accustomed to sharing things.

Barton lay on his stomach beside her, eyes darting from one henchmen to the next, taking in – she knew – their many guns strapped to their belts and shoulders. Two to one odds. Really, Natasha felt almost bad for the henchmen.

Barton, face checkered with light filtering unevenly through the grate, turned to meet Natasha's gaze. His eyes were stern but bright, hiding something almost like excitement. He lifted his hand soundlessly, first pointing with two fingers to the henchman standing closest to the door, then to his own chest, indicating he would take care of him. Natasha cocked an eyebrow and nodded. She then pointed to the henchman manning the security cameras. He belonged to her. Henchman Numbers Three and Four would have to wait their turns.

Natasha then slithered out of the way to give Barton room to maneuver around the vent. With barely a sound he unscrewed the latch. He met her eyes only briefly through the poor-lighting and Natasha nodded her consent. She was ready.

Barton let the cover drop. It clattered to the floor ten feet below. Henchman Number Four was the first to turn in surprise at the sound. Barton had already slipped through the hole in the ceiling, drawing his bow even before his feet hit the floor. Natasha followed him smoothly, familiar weight of her Glock 26 against her palm.

Henchman Number One was the second to realize what was happening and his hand flew to a button on the control pad, evidently an alarm. A bullet from Natasha's gun embedded in his hand ensured he would be temporarily distracted from calling for reinforcements. Natasha was aware of Barton's warm, tense body beside her as he knocked an arrow. She tried to ignore him, reminding herself that she didn't need to be concerned with what Barton was doing as long as he did his job. That was what partners were supposed to do.

She focused all her attention on henchman Number One instead, who choked on a cry of pain but grabbed for his gun with his uninjured hand. Natasha raised her gun to shoot him in the head only to have a hand tighten on her shoulder painfully. She changed tactics, whirling on her heel and swinging her gun upward. Her hair whipped across her face. The shocked expression on henchman Number Four's face was almost amusing as Natasha's knee came up soundly into his groin at the same time as the handle of her gun cracked against his forehead.

She turned in an instant to face Number One again. He actually had the audacity to grin, gun aimed for Natasha's face.

Natasha swung her leg forward, toe connecting solidly with his outstretched hand, gun flying from his startled grasp. She executed a perfect pirouette and leapt smoothly in the air, hand outstretched to meet the gun spiraling end over end. She caught the handle firmly in her left hand and pulled it down to aim for the henchman's forehead as her right hand brought up her own gun, fingers finding their respective triggers simultaneously. The henchman dropped as the dual puffs of gunpowder cleared from Natasha's vision, tickling her nose with the sweet smell of charred sawdust.

She spun again on her toe, calf muscles tightening as she dropped to her knee, bringing both guns level with her face and pointing them straight at the nose of henchman Number Three who had thought it would be a good idea to sneak up on her while she was distracted with Numbers One and Four. Her finger had found the triggers again but she paused, wondering what an arrow was doing already protruding from the man's neck.

The henchman collapsed, knees crashing to the floor. Barton stepped forward, already having disposed of Number Two, hand closing on the shaft of the arrow and, using the man's own backward momentum, pulled it out of Number Three's neck with a disquieting squelching noise.

Natasha realized she was still pointing the guns, now at empty space, and stood back to her feet, tucking both into her belt. She caught Barton's eyes momentarily and thought his expression was almost daring, as if he expected her to be grateful for something she had been quite capable of finishing herself thank-you-very-much.

"I could have taken care of him, Barton," she growled.

"I simply thank you would suffice," said Barton. Natasha rolled her eyes at Barton's back as he turned on his heel to lead the way out of the control room.

She followed his broad shoulders down the hallway, stride mirroring his own, pausing for a breath as he did, to check around a corner or down a flight of stairs. Together they moved fluidly through the building, meeting no further adversaries, until they reached the main body of the structure, a large warehouse littered with crates and boxes, large loading bay door open and letting the yellow Nicaraguan sunlight spill onto the cement floor.

Barton pointed across the wide room, to three figures standing by the opposite end, two more black-clad thugs and, in between their hulking shoulders, their mark: Vincent Ortega. Natasha immediately recognized his smooth bald head, sunburned from the harsh Central American sun, and wideset eyes from the surveillance pictures SHIELD had provided. She didn't need Barton to point him out for her and resisted the urge to swat away his hand.

"I can't take out all three from here, not without one of them raising the alarm," Barton hissed into Natasha's ear, breath tickling the back of her neck.

"We'd better get closer," Natasha whispered back.

"The distance isn't a problem, Romanoff," Barton said, seemingly a touch defensive.

Natasha rolled her eyes and dropped to her knees, crawling ahead of Barton down the catwalk that rimmed the warehouse wall. She moved soundless across the metal corridor, dodging behind crates and miscellaneous machinery to avoid the gaze of henchmen Five and Six.

Finally she reached the end of the catwalk and the flight of stairs that led to the floor beneath. Standing at the base of the stairs, back to Natasha, was Ortega and his posse. Barton touched the back of Natasha's shoe and she glanced fleetingly back at him. With a quick series of gestures he wordlessly translated that Natasha would take out the two henchmen while he would take care of Ortega. Natasha nodded her understanding, slightly irked by the exaggerated way Barton was communicating his every word. Wondering, if this was truly what it was to be partners, how long it would take them before their thoughts and actions would become so entwined there would be no need to translate them through signals. If, indeed, they could ever get to that point.

Natasha cast these thoughts aside and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before she sprang into action. She leapt to her feet, one crack of her gun meaning henchman Number Five was downed with a bullet in the back of his skull. She vaulted over the stair railing to avoid the swift retaliatory shot of Number Six, who appeared a bit more competent than the previous five, and managed to both aim for Natasha as well as use his body to shield Ortega.

Natasha cursed as a bullet clanged off the metal staircase, inches from her head, ducked under the stairs and came out beneath them on the other side to shoot Number Six squarely in the face.

Not competent enough, so it would seem.

Ortega tripped over his feet in his haste to get away from the sudden firefight that had erupted in his warehouse.

Barton launched himself over the railing of the catwalk with all the poise and self-certainty of an acrobat, swung his legs over his head before releasing the bar, tucked his knees to his chest, and tumbled neatly through the air in a summersault before he landed on one knee, bow already set on his shoulder, to let fly an arrow that buried itself into Ortega's left eye socket. The arms' dealer landed on the cement floor on his back, lifeless.

The strand of hair was still tucked neatly behind Natasha's ear. She stepped from behind the staircase to approach Barton. She made a mental note to sneak a look at Barton's file when she next had the chance. She wanted to find out where he'd picked up on some of those skills. Surely they weren't all SHIELD mandated.

Barton got to his feet and, per usual, recovered his arrow before walking up to Natasha, rather gruesomely wiping the soiled head on a corner of his shirt.

"Not bad, Barton," Natasha said.

"I'll say the same for you, Romanoff," Barton answered, grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Movement on the catwalk behind Barton's head caught Natasha's attention. In an instant she saw the glint of metal on the stairwell above them and, immediately recognizing it as a gun trained directly for Barton's head, she did the first thing that popped into her head. With a smooth kick to the back of Barton's knee, he folded and tumbled out of her way so that she could shoot at the previously hidden henchman Number Seven. Her gun cracked and bullet embedded itself into his forehead, gun slipping from his limp fingers and falling fifteen feet to clatter loudly on the floor.

Barton, lying on his stomach, looked at the gun thirty feet away and the blood that had begun to drip from the body of Number Seven on the catwalk above. He then twisted his head on his neck to stare at Natasha.

"You know, you could have just told me to duck," he said, but he was smiling.

Natasha actually found herself smiling in return, a motion that felt so casual she almost forgot its infrequence. She stretched out her hand to help Barton climb back to his feet.

"A simple thank you would suffice, Barton."

* * *

It suddenly made so much sense, why Barton wanted to drop by the logistics office himself instead of letting some paper pusher do it for him. Natasha held her arms over her chest and stood in the corner by the door, feet slightly spread apart, unimpressed.

"Romanoff," said Barton, throwing his hand first casually at Natasha's chest and then to the girl sitting behind the desk, "this is Leah Martinello from logistics."

"Agent Romanoff," said Leah Martinello, smile flickering. She was visibly nervous about meeting Natasha, who she had probably heard so much about already. She seemed uncertain of whether or not she was supposed to stand from her desk and offer her hand, and ended up inclining her head awkwardly in a half-bob of welcome and twitching her fingers upward in what generously counted as a wave.

Natasha enjoyed watching her struggle. "Leah Martinello from logistics," she said, nodding, eyebrows cocked drolly.

"I – um," Martinello cleared her throat, "I trust you two had a good trip."

"Reasonably productive, yes," Barton answered, leaning over the desk so his elbow rested on the glossy finish. His head was tilted toward her, lips curved in a gently teasing smile, and yearning for close proximity to her body so obvious that Natasha was almost repulsed.

"Ortega has an extra hole in his face now, if that's what you count as productive," said Natasha.

"Oh…yes," said Martinello, giggling weakly. She had golden blond hair, carefully waved. Even behind the desk she appeared fit and curvaceous. Her fingers were long, thin, and capable as she collected the stack of forms Barton handed her and began sorting them into piles on her desk, eyes averted from Natasha, fingernails painted pale pink but kept trim. Her eyelashes were long and caked with mascara, lips full and predictably rosy. Natasha mutely calculated in her head how quickly Barton would retaliate as her eyes fell on each of the twenty-seven objects in the room with which she could use to kill her, neatly and without making a sound.

Martinello seemed like a useless, redundant sort of tool. Natasha wondered what Barton saw in her.

"You busy later tonight?" said Barton, eyes not leaving Martinello's bowed head, fixed on the part of her hair where her brown roots showed through clearly.

Martinello's lips quirked, ever so slightly, but she seemed curiously reserved, perhaps because of Natasha's presence. "I'm working, Agent Barton. As are you. Debriefing with the Director and Agent Romanoff at nineteen hundred."

"Ah ha, have you been scanning my schedule again, Ms. Martinello?"

"I've been writing your schedule again, Agent Barton."

"Good, you'll be able to pencil yourself in at, oh, let's say twenty hundred hours, dinner, my place. Entirely casual affair. No need to dress at all, in fact…" Barton's voice had descended to a low purr, Martinello's eyes had drifted up to meet his. She looked oddly and sickeningly captivated.

Natasha swallowed back a wave of nausea. They were really quite abhorrent. It was somehow unsettling to realize this was the same man who had been casually taking out thugs with a bow and arrow not eight hours ago.

Martinello broke eye contact, untidily hiding a grin on her face, "I've already told you I'm working, Agent Barton."

"And I happen to love working women," Barton replied, "I'd be willing to help you catch up on all the work –"

Natasha cleared her throat, loudly and obviously because it appeared as though the both of them had forgotten she was present. Martinello jumped, faint blush stealing across her cheeks. Her hands flew to her blouse where she ran her palms over the fabric as if to smooth it. Barton straightened out casually, glancing at Natasha and looking supremely unconcerned.

"Shouldn't we be going, Barton?" said Natasha stiffly, "Coulson wanted to go over the operation before we met with Fury."

"Phil can wait," said Barton.

"No he can't," said Martinello quickly. "You'd better go, Agent Barton, don't want to get you in trouble for being late to class."

"For you I'd gladly play hooky. Or hickey, if you –"

" _Good-bye_ , Agent Barton," Martinello said firmly, cheeks blushing red, eyes darting to Natasha and quickly away again.

Natasha fought the urge to physically grab hold of Barton's collar and drag him out. She nodded briskly to Martinello again before walking back out of the door. Barton followed her after winking good-bye to Martinello, whose resulting grin was loud enough that Natasha wanted to clap her hands over her ears.

She stepped into the hallway outside the office and Barton closed the door behind them, staring at the smooth wood as though he hadn't realized it was there yet.

"I thought there were rules against that sort of thing."

Barton turned sharply to face her. He had not quite wiped the dopey smirk off his face. "What sort of thing?"

Natasha cocked an eyebrow, "Fraternization."

"What do you mean fraternization, Romanoff? It was just a bit of harmless banter."

Natasha snorted, "Don't be dense, Barton. If you can help it. How long have you been sleeping together?"

Barton put on a rather shoddy show of being affronted, "I resent that attack on mine and Leah's characters."

"I can't speak much for your character, Barton," Natasha continued, breaking into a brisk trot down the hallway, not knowing quite where she was walking. "But as for Martinello, I can't say I'm very impressed. I wouldn't have pinned her as quite your type. She's too blond."

"Martinello has more going for her than what appears on the surface," said Barton, walking abreast with her down the hallway, pace locking into hers in the same perfect synchronization Natasha had noticed in Ortega's headquarters.

Partners. It was a strange concept, but perhaps just a bit less strange than it had been twelve hours ago.

"She's that good in bed, huh?" Natasha smirked.

"That's not what I meant," Barton said, but Natasha noted he didn't deny it.

"I believe you referred to what was happening below the surface so naturally I…" Natasha trailed away, not looking at Barton. She was suddenly acutely aware that she was teasing him. She was…that was not something she usually did.

"Is that a joke, Romanoff?" said Barton, irritatingly grin spreading across his lips. "I wasn't aware you made jokes."

"Yes, well, maybe there's more to me than what's on the surface, as well," Natasha said quickly, without thinking. _Damn_.

Barton hesitated, briefly, enough that it was barely a twitch of his eyelid. His grin faded, but one corner of his lips still dug into his cheek. "Besides," he said, mercifully changing tactics, "how do you know what my type is, Romanoff? Maybe I go for red-heads. Might be the reason I brought you in from Sao Paulo all along."

Natasha breathed slowly through her nose, eyes flickering momentarily to the rugged profile of Barton's face beside her. It would be a nice profile to wake up to. Martinello didn't do too badly for herself.

"I was a brunette in Sao Paulo, Barton."


	3. Queen of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author humbly asks for her readers' forgiveness for missing her weekend posting schedule the last two weeks as she was lost somewhere in the mysterious realm between Wi-Fi signals while on vacation with her family. Also, sudden inspiration messed up her timeline.
> 
> In which Clint and Natasha discuss triggers and what assassins do in their free time. Plays homage to one of my favorite movies, the 1962 Manchurian Candidate.

After Nicaragua there was Trondheim with Agent Sylvan. It was almost as near a disaster as the Cuban Missile Crisis. Afterwards, Sylvan tried to get Natasha suspended for lack of cooperation and incompetence which was to say "does not play well with others". Instead, Fury rewarded Natasha with her first solo operation. It went relatively smoothly. No witnesses, at least, and the mark died, even though Natasha got blood on the Givenchy dress, but on a high note she did not – as Fury had undoubtedly been watching for – disappeared into the shadows never to be seen again.

Fury, however, apparently still believed she worked best with Barton. At least there wasn't any other explanation for being paired with him yet again in less a little more than a month. This time to Guadalajara to sniff out a _Capos_ of a drug cartel which was suspected of offing a high-status politician in a drive-by shooting and invoking the wrath of the "Council".

They arrived in Jalisco at the same time as Hurricane John. The rain peppered the roads in sheets, wind rattled the colorful canvas awnings, and thunder echoed against the stone walls of buildings. They were shown to their hotel rooms – separate, interlocking – by a nervous, tan-skinned porter who explained to them in Spanish (after Barton revealed he could speak the language) that all tourists had been asked to evacuate the city.

Barton then invented that they had missed their flight. Besides, weren't tourists. There for business, textiles exports mostly. Any good restaurants not closed for the storm?

Natasha dumped her bag in her room before joining Barton in his. Rain clattered against the windows and wind beat against the panes, flapping loose shutters. She hadn't ever been through a hurricane before. The porter had informed them that the cellar was available should they need a more secure shelter.

"Bit of an oversight on SHIELD's account, huh?" said Barton, grinning and throwing his clothes into a drawer from his suitcase without bothering to fold them.

"We might as well get some work done while we wait it out," said Natasha, sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter covering his bed, some kind of blue and green Mayan print with lots of triangular-shaped fish that the tourists would get a kick out of. "Alvarez is supposed to be living somewhere in Zapopan, the metropolitan area –"

"Romanoff, I've sat through just as many briefings as you have."

"Coulson says this one's going to take a bit of thought," Natasha answered.

Barton shook his head and kicked off his boots, letting them tumble into a pile by the door. He walked across the floor in his socks and folded into an armchair in the corner, tilting it backward so it balanced perilously on its two back legs. "Coulson needs to quit worrying. We've had plenty of time for thought."

"He thinks we lack _finesse_ ," said Natasha.

Barton smiled faintly. "Find me a palm tree nine-hundred meters away from Alvarez and I'll show Phil finesse."

"So you'd like to take him out long distance, then? What do you need me to do, find a way to get him out in the open?"

"Relax, Romanoff," Barton drawled, shutting his eyes and crossing his legs, heel atop toes. "The storm's gonna hold us off for a couple of hours…days if we're lucky."

Natasha snorted, "Lucky. I'm here to get the job done and get out. I haven't got time to watch a thunderstorm holed up in a lousy hotel room."

"At least it's got AC," said Barton. "Anyway, I haven't got anywhere else to be."

Natasha rolled her eyes. His optimism was ingratiating, even more so because he was obviously doing it deliberately to get on her nerves. She hadn't the faintest idea why Fury thought they worked well together.

"Wouldn't you rather be sleeping late with your girlfriend? Your conduct at the base suggested it." Natasha recalled Barton and Martinello's farewell on the hanger. Abruptly, vividly, she remembered Barton's lips clamped on Martinello's and Martinello's hand cradling Barton's hip. The last time Natasha had touched someone like that she'd been trying to sneak his gun out of his belt loop without him noticing.

"I'd be more concerned about Barton than me. He isn't exactly subtle," she had told Agent Coulson, standing beside her with his arms crossed over his chest. He was looking at Barton intently, undoubtedly disapprovingly.

"Kid should be careful. Attachment can be dangerous in a career like his."

She had glanced at Coulson in surprise. Natasha, in between wondering why Coulson was opening up to her, realized this was probably the only time she and the handler would agree about anything.

Barton had finally pulled away from Martinello and was walking toward them, looking absurdly self-satisfied. His boots clanked against the ramp as he climbed into the Quinjet.

"Alright?" He asked Coulson.

Coulson nodded, "Check in when you get there." He stepped off the ramp before turning his head to look over his shoulder, "and good luck, Agents."

Natasha didn't know whether or Coulson was earnestly addressing both of them, or had only added the plural for politeness. His attitude hadn't seemed to change toward her at all in the past weeks she'd been there. She would have thought he'd at least have been grateful when Barton hadn't come home from Nicaragua with a bullet in the back of his skull.

She stepped back as the ramp began to close, whirring mechanically. Her last glimpse of the hanger was of the overlooking guiderail, over which Director Fury was leaning and scanning the terminal humming with activity. She tracked the line of sight of his good eye, where it landed on Martinello, waving at Barton as the ramp closed and blocked him from her sight.

"Leah's gone for the week, visiting her folks."

Natasha was pulled back to the present by Barton's voice. He still had his eyes closed. She wondered fleetingly what Martinello's parents thought of their little girl dating an assassin. Albeit Barton probably told them he was an accountant.

"Seriously, Romanoff," Barton's eyes snapped open. Natasha realized she had been fidgeting, foot bobbing quickly against the springy mattress, " _Relax_. What does the Black Widow do when she's not working, anyway?"

"Mostly catch flies to drink their blood later," Natasha said acidly.

Barton tipped his chair forward again and it landed on all four legs with a thud. He perched his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, suddenly incongruently serious. "Come on, Romanoff, not that it isn't incentive enough that you're my partner, but it still wouldn't hurt to have something else to go on when I'm in the field watching your back."

Natasha swung her legs off the bed, feet landing on the thin, stubby carpeted floor. "Let's get this clear, Barton," she said firmly, rigidly, "I don't need my back watched. By anyone."

"It wouldn't have hurt to have someone watching your back when I snuck up behind you in Sao Paulo."

Natasha chewed on the inside of her lips to stop herself from opening her mouth and spewing Russian vulgarities. She blinked and looked somewhere at the beige wall over Barton's left shoulder. The paint was chipped and bleached by sunlight.

Her reasons for joining SHIELD were still disconcertedly opaque. The Black Widow specialized in lies, even to herself, and it made her uncomfortable to think Barton might be able to read her better than she was able to. Then again, perhaps Barton was only bluffing and was equally as wary as Natasha was that she'd still jump ship.

Natasha shoved these thoughts back to the gaping refuse bin at the edge of her mind. Now was neither the time nor place to fall into self-doubt. She was here for a job. Just a job. She could reflect on her motives for doing it after she got it done.

Natasha could feel Barton's eyes on her. He cleared his throat. His tone abruptly changed, "So…not even Tuesday night bridge with the girls? Poker at the bar?"

Natasha was momentarily taken off-guard. She hated how he did that, tersely moving from subject to subject, insisting she stay on her toes, making her unbalanced.

"I'm more of a solitaire fan." She tried to keep her tone light. As Barton had clearly realized, there was no need to open hostilities…at least not yet, stuck in a hotel with a storm raging outside the windows. They would wait until Alvarez was dead before taking shots at each other. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, feeling irrationally as if she owed Barton some kind of explanation. "I averaged one or two hits a week. I didn't have much time for relaxing."

Barton nodded slowly, pursing his lip slightly. She tried to read his face but couldn't quite tell what he was thinking, if he was shocked or disgusted, or perhaps slightly impressed.

"Yeah, I can imagine," he said finally. "I've never had much room for downtime, either." He paused for a moment, mouth in a flat line. Natasha wondered if she couldn't sense a hint of something introspective in his silence.

Natasha didn't reply and was finally rewarded for her silence when he spoke again, whistling low and long, "Kinda strange when you think of it like that, all those people and more of them every day."

Natasha raised her eyebrows and smirked, "There are a lot of people in the world, Barton. Besides, look at us now. Not exactly on a mission of mercy, here."

She wondered how he did that, how it was possible to still maintain any glimmer of morality, to still somehow expect it to exist in the world. They, the both of them, were trained killers. How could Barton expect to find any of the answers shrouded in the shades of gray in which they breathed, lived, and existed day to day?

Natasha realized, abruptly, that she still knew very little about her partner – for lack of a better word. Clinton Francis Barton. Codename: Hawkeye. Thirty-five years old. Born January seventh, nineteen-seventy-one. Marine before he joined SHIELD. Past circus performer. The latter had been slightly unexpected but not unbelievable. It explained some of his more…distinctive fighting styles. All of this information gleaned from his file, which he didn't know she'd read. She wasn't idiotic enough to think Barton hadn't done the same to hers, though…so they were technically even.

But she still didn't really _know him_. What made him tick? What drove him to do the things he did? He had mentioned in passing once his own recruitment into SHIELD, had said looking at Natasha had been like staring into a mirror.

"Don't get me wrong," said Barton, raising a hand, eyes meeting Natasha's. He had intense eyes. They seemed to see right through her, like an x-ray, like he could read her every thought and movement. It made her uncomfortable, like she'd been pinned on a slide under a microscope. "I'm not casting judgement. It's just…strange."

Natasha pulled her legs back under her, curling into a ball on the bed. Look casual. Look relaxed. "Not casting judgement because…?" she prompted, making her face open, confidant.

Barton shrugged, "Yeah, well, judge not lest ye be judged. It's not like I've lived a crystal clear life myself. Done plenty I regret." He spoke bluntly, tersely, like the beating of a drum. "Before I joined SHIELD I did some freelance work. I'd like to consider some of it vigilante justice but…I don't know. All I'll say is it's a relief to have SHIELD calling the shots now."

Natasha nodded. She grabbed the edge of the comforter and wound her fingers in the plush fabric. "So you think SHIELD always calls them right?"

Barton shrugged again, nondescript. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he didn't want to know.

"SHIELD doesn't just send us out to off people, you know. So far that's all you've been assigned, but just because they're still feeling out your talents. I've been on plenty of protective details, some reconnaissance work, even a rescue operation every so often. Seems like their trying to make the world a better place, even if it doesn't feel like their having much of an impact."

"Protective details, huh?" said Natasha, leaning back on her elbow. "So you weren't just getting close to Jabari Sekibo so his bodyguards wouldn't suspect you when he turned up dead in the bathtub?"

Barton paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

Natasha almost smiled, "I never forget a face."

Finally Barton cracked a smile as well, looking wry but resigned. "So, that was you in Zimbabwe, huh? Should have recognized your work."

"Sorry I messed up your job. Hope you didn't get in too much trouble with the boss."

"Slapped me on the wrist. Nothing too bad," said Barton. "To tell you the truth, SHIELD hadn't quite made up their own minds of whether or not I was there to protect Sekibo or shoot him in the jugular. I should probably thank you for making up their minds for them."

The rain pattered against the walls of the hotel. Thunder blossomed in the sky. Lightning cracked across the dark clouds, casting sharp shadows across the room like the flash of a camera. The light above the bed flickered.

Barton put his arms behind his head, folding his fingers to cup the base of his neck. "I guess it's easier if you forget they're people."

His voice was soft, quiet. Natasha pretended it was lost in a rumble of thunder that vibrated through the room so she wouldn't have to reply. She lay back on the bed, head falling against the mattress, shutting her eyes, listening to Barton breathe.

"The Red Room gave us two rules," she said, voice pulsing up her throat, tasting like acid. "One, take out your mark. Two, no witnesses. Makes for plenty of collateral damage those two damn rules."

She could feel Barton's eyes on her, searing hot and attentive. Her stomach rose and fell gently with each breath. The rain rattled the window, filled the room with its beat, like a thousand buzzing flies echoing inside her skull.

"Are you the only one who's ever defected?"

The accuracy of Barton's questions were frightening. It was as if he could see into her own mind, pick apart the carefully constructed web and discover all the same questions where they waited within her brain, unanswered, possibly unanswerable.

"I don't know."

Why had Natasha even been able to defect? What made her different? What was she looking for in SHIELD that she hadn't found in the Red Room?

"Do you think any of the others are after you?"

Natasha sat up, eyebrows furrowing when she found Barton's face. She tried to determine if he was telling the truth or not. She didn't know all his tells yet. Eventually she was forced to conclude he was being honest. He actually didn't know. Whether or not he was being deliberately obtuse to glean information, on the other hand, she was still uncertain.

"The others are dead, Barton. I'm the only one left. So, as for your question: no. I haven't gotten my own picture on my hit list yet."

Barton's eyes widened in momentary surprised that seemed, for all Natasha could tell, completely genuine.

It had been unspoken in the Red Room, that only one would ultimately come out alive. Somehow it had just been known, instinctively like breathing. Only one Black Widow per generation, to ensure excellence, superiority. Fedosia, Vasilisa, Alisa, Tonya. Natasha could remember their names. She could remember what they looked like. Soft, brown curls. Blue eyes. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Mole on her left cheek near the corner of her eye. Natasha had killed them. She remembered what it had felt like to kill them.

Her chest suddenly felt tight. She made certain she did not break eye contact with Barton. She refused to let him see inside of her.

"Would that work?" He asked.

It took Natasha a moment to realize what he meant. "You mean has the Red Room ever told one of us to kill ourselves and did we listen?"

Barton nodded a tight affirmative. He looked oddly fascinated. The light above the bed was flickering with more insistency now as the storm outside grew more ravenous. Shadows trembled across Barton's rough features.

Her childhood was a series of large, blank periods and hazy images intermitted with memories that were razor sharp, every detail of them crystal clear like it had happened last Tuesday. She recalled the voiceover of a Disney cartoon, _Look, new spring grass_ , the sharp crack of animated bullets, _Don't look back. Keep running. Keep running!_ And the shattering echo of a gun close at hand, a shadow falling across the projector, and the thump of a body hitting the tile floor.

_I made it, Mother! Wait…Mother? Mother?_

"Yes," Natasha said at last, lips barely moving, unsure of what urge caused her to speak. "It's possible."

Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. Barton shook his head, slowly from side to side, eyes not leaving Natasha's.

"How does that work?" he said at last, sounding awestricken, faintly disgusted. "How do they get into your minds like that?"

"There were different…triggers," Natasha said slowly, feeling each word carefully on her tongue, unwilling to say too much but feeling curiously unable to stop, "hypnosis and I think I remember some drugs. Mostly it was all we knew. We had to kill to avoid being killed. It fostered a…perverse dedication."

"Triggers," said Barton, "like what? Words, phrases, pictures?"

"I don't know," said Natasha and shrugged. Her stomach was swirling strangely, aching between her ribs. She felt almost nauseous. "At least I don't exactly know what my mine were. The Red Room weens you off of them after you've reached a certain level of…compliance. But I suppose they might still be there, even if they stopped using them. I don't know if they might still work or not."

"Doesn't that scare you, not knowing what they are, when they'll appear –"

Natasha cut him off, "That maybe someday while playing solitaire I'll draw the Queen of Spades and I might accidently shoot you in the head? Honestly, Barton, I'd be more afraid if I were _you_."

She was suddenly aware she had said too much. Barton had a curiously pacifying effect on her. She hadn't quite realized how much she was spilling. Irritation at herself flared to life in her stomach. She fought it down, smothering the impulse to turn away and descend once again into glum brooding. She remembered that, after all, the primary reason for allow Barton to engage her in conversation was to get him to spill some of his own secrets.

"What about you, Barton? What are your triggers?" She asked it softly, not quite meeting his eyes, hoping he'd be more inclined to share if he didn't think this was an interrogation.

Barton grinned at her slyly, in a way that told her the game was up. Damn. He looked away, and leaned over to the floor, digging in the open mouth of his duffle bag. Thunder clattered outside the window. Rain pounded against the building like hundreds of knuckles knocking on a door.

"So…solitaire," said Barton, extracting a deck of card secured with a rubber band from his bag and looking up, smile seeping in his eyes. "Ever played double?"


	4. Wreck

Natasha's sock-clad foot smacked into Barton's forearm as he aptly blocked her blow. She twisted in midair and landed on both feet, ducked, and lashed out as his ribcage with her hand curled into a fist. Barton and she moved seamlessly over the mats spread across the gymnasium floor, anticipating each other's moves before they were thrown, feinting, blocking, and parrying in what was almost a dance. Sometimes she still wondered who would win, if they were ever forced to face each other in an honest fight.

She felt her stomach soar with a strange feeling of delight. Her head buzzed with adrenaline, heart pumped hot, roaring blood through her veins. She didn't think she had ever before felt so alive. Somewhere in the back of her mind, as she rolled out of the way of Barton's high kick, she wondered if this was what contentment felt like.

"Clint."

The voice whipped out of the dim world outside of the sphere she and Barton created from the elegant release of pent-up energy, punches, blocks, and sweat.

Natasha twirled to a pause, arm still raised, but Barton had ceased as well, turning to face Coulson, who was picking his way across the sweat smeared mats of the cathedral-seized SHIELD training room.

Natasha stepped backward, unconcerned, reaching for a towel with one hand and swiping at a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead with sweat with the other. She slung the towel over her shoulders and then reached for a water bottle. She poured the contents into her mouth, some of which spilled over her lips and dripped off her chin. She wore a black tank top. The low, scooping neck revealed her chest, which glistened with sweat.

"Logistics called," Coulson was saying, Barton facing him, back to Natasha, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. "You heard from Martinello today? She hasn't come in to work. Apparently she was visiting her –"

"Folks, yeah," Barton interrupted. "I haven't heard from her since we got back from Mexico. She was supposed to be gone for just the week."

Natasha wiped her face with her towel slowly and silently, keeping her ears trained to Barton and Coulson's conversation, spoken softly across the room filled with the sound of clanking dumbbells, grunts and slap of flesh of other sparring duos, and thump of gloves against sand-filled boxing bags.

"Well, no cause for alarm, Clint," Coulson said dismissively. Natasha peered at Coulson's face as she peeled off her soaked shirt, striping to her sports bra. Coulson looked as blank and emotionless as ever, eyes staring intently at Barton, who's gray t-shirt clung to his back, blotches of black spreading in webs under his neck and arms from sweat. "She probably just got a cold. Forgot to call in."

"Yeah," Barton's voice was low, almost distracted. "Sure. Thanks, Phil."

Coulson stepped back across the room, nodding briefly to two agents who were picking themselves off a nearby mat. Barton watched him leave. He turned on his heel without looking at Natasha and slung his own towel over his shoulders. He took hold of his water bottle and dumped the contents over his head before crushing the empty bottle in his fist. Water dripped off his hair – usual spikes deflated during the workout and lying limp and wet across his forehead – and onto the floor, collecting in a puddle around his bare feet.

Natasha stretched her stiff arms over her head, smelling her own sweat in her nostrils. She couldn't wait to hit the shower. God, only three months in this place and she was already going soft. Barton toweled off his hair, tossed his crushed bottle with familiar precision into a bin standing against the wall and then turned to march across the room, bypassing the men's locker room. Natasha slung her wet shirt over the crook of her elbow before following him.

* * *

Despite her windbreaker the chill breeze still cut Natasha to the core, seeping into her still-wet shirt and making her skin erupt into gooseflesh as she stepped onto the crowded New York street directly behind Barton, door swinging shut behind her and almost clipping her heels. The breeze caught her hair, washing it into her eyes. She pulled it into a tail, and secured it behind her head with the hairband around her wrist.

There was a slight bulge in the back of Barton's shirt, directly above the top of his drawstring sweatpants, where Natasha knew he had stowed his gun, not being able to carry his quiver and bow onto a street full of pedestrians without looking conspicuous. Barton stepped up to the curb, sidestepping a man and a woman to get into the back of a waiting cab. Natasha slipped in after him.

"Brooklyn," Barton grunted, eyes fixing themselves on the cab driver, whose lips were smacking wetly together as he unconcernedly chewed gum. Natasha swung the door shut behind her, cutting off the startled protestations of the couple on the curb.

Natasha watched Barton. His lips were set in a grim line, eyes staring at the back of the driver's seat, knee jumping, fingers drumming on his thigh, Natasha knew he would sooner sprint to Brooklyn if only to make himself feel like he was actually doing something.

The cab smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. There was something sticky on the lip of her seat, pulling on the bare skin of her leg exposed by her tight athletic shorts. Natasha opened her mouth to say something, closed it when nothing came out, and turned her head to look out the window at the passing cars and stoplights, watching Barton's reflection in the glass.

"Looks like there's some kind of delay up here," said the driver when they pulled next to the green sign for 28th Street. Natasha peered through the windshield, noticing a line of cramped, honking cars and bright strobe lights of emergency vehicles darting off the hoods of vehicles and black pavement. Pedestrians crowded on the sidewalks, craning their necks, grumbling about the delay. "Shoot, that smoke? Must have been some kind of accident."

Natasha could see it, too. Black, billowing smoke rising above the heads of the crowd and flashing lights. The taxi ground to a stop at the end of a line of haphazardly parked traffic. The driver cursed under his breath, "Sorry, folks, looks like it might be a while."

Barton didn't seem to be listening. Natasha looked over at him to see his face was suddenly drawn in rapt attention, eyes blazing through the windshield, attempting to penetrate the surging crowd. Before she'd quite registered it, he had moved. The driver had not fully shifted into park before Barton had the back door open and was sliding to his feet on the pavement.

"Leah." His lips barely moved, voice was so low Natasha wasn't quite sure he had spoken at all.

Natasha choked back a curse. "Barton – wait." She fumblingly opened her own door and darted after him, driver's protests lost behind her in the babble of the crowd. There was no possible reason Martinello – Barton had no cause to think – it was utterly ridiculous to assume –

Like ants attracted to sugar water spilled on the floor, the crowd swarmed and swelled as one, drawing as close to the smoldering wreck in the center of the road as the line of policemen forcing them backward would allow. Barton used his shoulders to force a wide berth through the crowd, jogging slightly, an irrational air of panic hanging onto his movements.

"Sir," a black uniformed policeman marched forward, face grim, walkie-talkie buzzing on his collar, "This is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to stay out."

Barton didn't appear to hear him, but kept walking, craning his head to see over the policeman's shoulder. With his back to her, Natasha couldn't see Barton's face.

"Sir," the policeman stepped forward, blocking Barton's progress, "I'm asking you for the second time, stay out."

Still Barton didn't listen. With a spin, he darted around the officer, breaking into the center of the ring made by the crowd, firetrucks, and police cars. The officer whirled, off-balance, after him, and Natasha seized his moment of distraction to follow Barton, kicking her legs forward, mind clicking automatically into high alert.

It was a car, at the center, upturned and obstructed by leaping flames, being doused by water gushing from the mouths of firemen's hoses. The flames had reduced it to nothing more than a hulking, twisted shell of metal. Natasha caught a brief glimmer of the bright blue, chipped paint on the bumper.

"No." Again, Natasha was unsure whether or not Barton had spoken.

Her mind seemed to swirl and fix itself wholly on Barton as he came to a jerky stop, on the policeman as he sprinted toward them again, calling into his radio for reinforcements. In what seemed like slow motion she watched as the policeman's hand enclosed around Barton's wrist, as Barton responded in instinct, arm twisting out of the officer's grasp, hand reaching behind him for his gun –

And suddenly Natasha felt Barton's warm flesh under her fingers as her own hand twisted around his wrist, arm already pinned behind his back. She pulled upward. She heard his grunt of pain and surprise, felt him stiffen, ready to retaliate, and hissed urgently into his ear before he could move.

"Stand down, Agent Barton. Stand down, now!"

The policeman had barely recovered and blinked at Natasha's rapid interference, confusion flashing through his eyes but hand reaching for his belt, for a Taser or a gun, Natasha didn't know and didn't want to stick around to find out.

She heard the urgent pounding of other approaching officers.

"Now, Barton," she hissed again, not letting up on her grip on his arm, taking a step backward.

"Hey, you! Halt right now!" The shout came from behind them, from another officer pounding toward them on the asphalt. The uncertainty was evident in his voice but he didn't appear to be interested in asking any questions.

"Now!" Natasha growled again, pulling Barton with more force back toward the ogling crowd and chaos behind them. For a horrible moment she thought he was going to fight her, was going to erupt, and she would have to take him down in the middle of a crowded street, but then she felt his taught muscles relax slightly under her fingers and to her relief he allowed her to lead him back to the crowd.

Ahead of them flames crackled around the car, leaping out of the shattered windows, obscuring any sign of a body in the front seat. Natasha couldn't imagine there'd be much of anything left. Barton seemed incapable of looking away.

She pulled him until the crowd closed in around them, policemen blocked from sight. She remembered she still had his arm pinned to his back and, hoping he no longer harbored any direct intentions of lashing out at anything, released him. His arm swung to hang limply by his side.

"Barton."

He didn't seem to have heard her.

"Barton. We should go."

He stared through the crowd, unmoving and mute. He hardly seemed to be breathing. Natasha realized her hand was still on his shoulder. His skin was hot under her fingers. The wind whipped through the tunnel created by the skyscrapers on either side of them. It ruffled through Natasha's hair like cold fingers.

Natasha moved around him so she might look at his face, hoping to gain eye contact and tear him away. She tried to ignore the pulsing sense of unease that had blossomed to life in her belly.

"Barton –" the look in his eyes caught her off-guard. He was – he looked lost. He looked frightened, like a – like a child who had lost its mother's hand in the supermarket. He didn't appear to be staring at anything at all. His eyebrows were creased, the lines around his mouth pronounced.

"Come on," she didn't know why she was whispering. She was not accustomed to sympathy. Her words felt clumsy and awkward coming off her tongue. "Barton, you don't – you don't know that it was her. We should go. Come on."

"Her car." His lips barely moved. His voice was rough.

"Dammit, you couldn't possibly know that!" Her voice leapt out of her lips, much louder than she intended. "We need to get out of here now. We can't – we can't be seen here."

The back of her neck was tingling with the eyes of the people around them, some who had noticed the disturbance with the police. Natasha felt exposed despite being in such a large crowd. She could see the caps of police officers peaking above the heads of pedestrians. She wondered if they were still trying to force their way in to Barton. Smoke billowed into the air past the red fire engines and flashing police lights.

"Barton –" Her fingers tightened around his wrist. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingertips, rapid and insistent. "Barton –" Barton what? What could she possibly say to him? I'm sorry? Don't worry? "Barton, please –"

And then, mercifully, just as her touch had before enabled her to lead him away from the police officer, he relaxed beside her and turned. She pulled him back through the crowd, his presence beside her warm and large and strangely distracting. She had to fight the urge to keep glancing up at him to make sure he was alright. Their cab driver was waiting outside the car and if he found anything puzzling about Barton's behavior he did not say it, but only looked relieved that they had returned. Natasha remembered they had neglected to pay him.

"Bring us back the way you came," she said.

"You sure?" said the driver. "I could swing you around –"

"Bring us back," Natasha snapped. The driver stepped mutely back into his seat behind the wheel.

Natasha opened the back door and stood back to allow Barton to climb in before her. She could smell smoke on the air. Her ears were ringing with babbling voices and crying sirens. She realized she was still holding his hand.

* * *

Natasha had not expected to see Barton the next day, especially when word of Martinello's death spiraled through the SHIELD base, on the lips of every agent and employee. Body unrecognizable. Positive DNA test. Suddenly it seemed like common knowledge that Martinello and Barton had been sharing an apartment in Brooklyn for almost a year now.

Natasha had not realized they had been so serious. She did not want to think about what her death might have done to Barton. She wondered if the loss of his girlfriend – lover, or playmate, or whatever Martinello had been to Barton – had affected him at all, made him weaker or struck him with a heightened fervor in his work. Natasha didn't know. She had never lost someone she'd been close to before – mainly because she'd refused to allow herself to become close to anyone that she'd be afraid to lose.

When she faced him on the mat in the gymnasium she looked carefully into his eyes, searching for any change, any sign of grief or feebleness, any change at all that might speak his value as an Agent had been compromised because of this loss. He didn't look any different. His eyes looked hard.

Coulson was watching from the side, arms crossed over his chest, evidently studying Barton just as Natasha was.

Natasha sprang into action, hoping to get a jump on him but he responded with just as much swiftness and agility he had always employed before. She blocked a punch that flew toward her face and then dropped to the ground to roll out of the way of his swinging foot. She leapt back to her feet and threw a series of sharp punches which he aptly blocked.

His fingers closed tightly around her shoulder and she spun out of his grasp. His hands were rough on her skin and her flesh ached with the beginnings of a shallow bruise. Not that they shouldn't have been, of course, but there was a delicate balance when sparring between keeping oneself tuned to deadly precision and avoiding actually injuring one's partner.

Natasha retaliated with a kick to the back of his knees. Barton used his backward momentum as he fell to tuck himself into a summersault and immediately got to his feet again. He charged her. She twisted out of the way. His fingers closed around her wrist, tight, fingernails biting into her skin.

Sometimes in the Red Room the directors would pair older, stronger girls with weaker partners to weed the feeble ones out. There was a subtle shift in sparring, when the object changed to a lethal one, detectable in the movements of one's opponent even if one hadn't seen the director's finger cut across their throat. It had been Natasha's ability to sense that shift in her partner's body that had enabled her to survive even when she had been pitted against a stronger girl so she might be killed.

She felt that shift now, in the muscles of Barton's arms, rippling with lethal accuracy in his fingers, detected it possibly even before Barton, himself, had registered his changed objective.

Natasha reacted swiftly and seamlessly in kind, morphing her movements to fit Barton's, faster, stronger, more pointed. Yanking her arm away from his fingers so his nails left red stripes on her skin, spinning so she faced his back and landing two sharp cracks on his spine before he twisted around to face her, edge of his hand clipping her on the collar bone.

Blood pounded through Natasha's head, her body responding mechanically to Barton's movements, not pausing to wonder what had prompted this odd change in his behavior, this dangerous urgency to his fighting, the wild, unfamiliar light dancing in his eyes. She felt something tumble into her stomach, a strange emotion she was not accustomed to experiencing and at last defined as fear.

Barton's forearm looped around her neck. She choked, windpipe cut off. Black spots blossomed to life in the corners of her eyes. She struggled against his grip, tearing at his arm with her fingers. She dug her heel into the top of his foot. She tried to twist away. He was too strong for her. He was –

Suddenly the pressure was gone. Natasha fell away and twisted to face him, low to the ground, perched on her tip-toes like a cat ready to spring on her prey, teeth bared, breathing heavily to clear her head.

Coulson was standing behind Barton, pinning his arms behind him. His face looked hard and set, but voice was gentle as he hissed into Barton's ear, "Easy, Clint. Stand down."

Barton's eyes were wild, something animal and cruel in their depths. Natasha found she didn't know him.

"Easy, Clint," Coulson said again, voice rhythmic and soothing. His voice seemed to serve as a tonic and Barton's taught muscles relaxed. His eyes dropped from Natasha's face.

She stood slowly, breathing heavily, hand messaging her neck.

"What the hell was that, Barton?" she spat, anger steaming inside her brain until that was all she could feel, overtaking her. She fought the impulse to jump at him and take him out while he was unaware.

For a moment he stared at her as if he couldn't quite place her face, chest heaving. And then he dropped. His knees hit the mat beneath him with two, simultaneous thuds. Coulson released Barton's arms. They swung to his side, fists pressing into the foam floor, head bowed, gasping for breath.

The moment stung and twisted through the air, attracting the eyes of the other training agents. Natasha noticed Director Fury standing on the catwalk that ringed the gymnasium, single eye merely a flash of light in the distance. He was looking at Barton. Everyone was looking at Barton.

Natasha turned away. There was something indecent about his strong body curved in defeat, Coulson's fingers lightly brushing the back of his neck, his wide shoulders convulsing as he gasped for breaths, high-pitched gulps like a wounded animal.

Sweat dripped off a strand of Natasha's hair and landed on her cheek, floated down her face and off her chin like a tear. She gritted her teeth and swept away from the scene, refusing to look at Barton, refusing to address this weakness or allow her mind to drift to the possibility that Barton may have actually been crying.

Her feet padded across the floor soundlessly. She looked straight ahead. Her hands pressed against the cool surface of the door which swung open at her touch. She did not look up as she passed under where Fury stood, feeling his eye on the top of her head as he followed her out of the room before against swiveling forward to look at Barton.

The door shut behind her, closing on the frantic gasping coming out of Barton's throat, rendering him unrecognizable.

If this was how people reacted when someone they loved was killed then it was a good thing the Red Room had warned her long ago of its effects. Love was for children. If Martinello's death had had such a profound effect on him than Natasha couldn't imagine what Barton would have been like had she lived and continued to distract him throughout his career as a SHIELD agent. Barton was foolish for allowing himself to feel such an emotion. Love compromised you, there wasn't any way around it.

It was probably a good thing that Martinello had died.


	5. After the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is directly connected to my Natasha-centric fic Red, which you can find in full on my profile if you're interested. The flashbacks are taken, slightly altered, from the text.

Natasha felt stiff and shivery, perched on the end of the double bed atop the dingy and threadbare comforter. She stared at her fingers, entwined on top of her thighs, and inspected the now dried blood around the torn nail of her right middle finger.

She could still smell ash and smoke all around her, in her nostrils, on her hair damp from melted snow, and clinging to the fabric of her uniform. Violent wind rattled the panes of glass in the window outside of which lay Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, a picturesque mix of the old world and the new, worn stone, electric lighting, and taxis rumbling over the cracked roads, overseen by the mighty, snow-capped Caucasus.

* * *

_"Romanoff! This isn't our job! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Barton's footsteps pounded on the polished linoleum floor as he caught up to her. Sirens keened in the background. Smoke clogged the halls. Screams of pain and fear crashed against Natasha's ears. She saw yellow and red flames flickering ahead like rippling water. She heard the sound of tinkling glass and saw the clear contents of an IV flask spill across the floor, spreading through the cracks of the linoleum floor like the edges of a puzzle. And then, above the roaring flames, sirens, and distant screams, above it all, clear, and plaintive rose the keening cry of a child._

* * *

Beside her Barton – Clint – was gingerly peeling off his shirt. He stifled a groan and Natasha looked over, remembering the burning beam of wood that had fallen against his shoulder.

"Here. Let me help." She spoke quietly, voice winding across the chilled, stoic air in the musty hotel room, fingertips already reaching to touch the bottom of his torn right sleeve, arm hanging limply by his side.

"I'm fine," he grunted, struggling to pull his left arm out of the sleeve, shirt pooling in folds around his neck, revealing half of his sculpted chest, all tight, smooth skin that disappeared into the belt of his pants.

Natasha didn't answer him, but gently began rolling up his sleeve, revealing skin bruised purple and red. He bit back a wince as she pulled his shirt over his shoulder where the fabric had burned through, leaving an angry patch of red and white, blistered skin, already swelling.

The fire mounted and reared like a vicious beast, swallowing everything in its path. The ceiling above them creaked and swayed. There was a splintering, grinding sound and a beam of wood detached from the rafters, bringing with it a shower of glowing red embers like fluttering confetti. Natasha heard Barton grunt in pain as the beam collapsed on his shoulder. Flames licked up the wood, sizzling angrily as it stroked his hair. He was hunched over, using his body to shield the child in his arms.

"I'll get the med kit," she murmured, barely moving her lips, tearing her eyes away from his abs and dropping his ruined shirt on the floor. She turned her back on him, rummaging through their bag until her hand closed on the kit. She heard the squeak of the mattress as he sat down. She stopped by the bathroom briefly to wet a washcloth with cool water, avoiding her eyes, bloodshot from the smoke, reflected back at her in the tarnished mirror above the sink.

She crossed the room and sat beside Clint on the bed, mattress sagging beneath her, pulling her toward him until her knee touched his thigh. "Thank you…Natasha." The name rolled clumsily off his tongue, sounding unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

She met his eyes, briefly, glistening blue-green in the half-light spilling from the lamp on the bedside table and she almost smiled. She gently padded his burned flesh with the wet cloth. She felt him stiffen under her touch but not pull away. She thought how strange it was to be tending a wound instead of causing one.

Her eyes drifted unintentionally to the small, half-moon shaped wounds on Clint's wrist made from her own fingernails. For a moment she considered apologizing but then stopped herself, not wanted to draw attention to her moment of weakness, however fleeting it had been.

"It doesn't look bad," she said, pulling her eyes back to his shoulder, feeling his hot skin under the cool beds of her fingers as she ripped off a strand of gauze and began wrapping it around his arm. She could feel his eyes on the top of her bent head. She seemed unusually aware of his gaze, hard and piercing like the point of one of his arrows.

He smiled silently in answer, the lines around his mouth curving upward just so slightly. Natasha secured the gauze with a piece of surgical tape and then slid off the bed quickly, heat of Clint's leg against her own immediately being replaced by the penetrating chill of the room.

* * *

_The frozen ground felt hard and cool, seeping through the scorched fabric of her spandex leggings. She tangled her fingers in the grass and closed her eyes, breathing deeply the cold, crisp air that stung her lungs and throat and dried the tears on her lashes to a sticky, grainy film. It embraced her shoulders like the arms of a lover. The white-capped Caucuses cast a shadow over the lawn and the near parking lot speckled with cars with rusty license plates, all covered with the faint, flickering glow of orange flame and dark, drifting clouds of smoke belching from the crumbling hospital._

_Natasha heard the grass crunch under Barton's shoes as he approached, unnaturally keen eyesight routing her out from between the press of frantic bodies and emergency responders._

_"Romanoff, we should go."_

_She looked up at him from the ground. The tips of his hair were singed black, face stained with soot, shoulders dusted with white ash like the snow-tipped mountains looming above them. The air was clean and cool. Natasha tasted smoke and blood in her mouth. She could still smell the burned hair of the child she had carried out of the hospital to safety._

_"Natasha?" Something in Barton's voice changed, became a coarse whisper more poisonous than any curse. His rough fingers touched her shoulder, gently, almost tentatively as though he was afraid she would strike him. She realized she was trembling. Her hand rose to touch Clint's, resting on top of the back of his fist, winding her fingers around his wrist, trying to work warmth back into his dry and cold skin. Her fingernails dug into Clint's wrist until they broke skin and made him bleed. Clint choked on a hiss of pain but didn't pull away. Natasha wondered why he didn't pull away. His blood slithered between her fingers._

* * *

Snow whipped outside of the window, obscuring the street and cars below. Clint snatched up the television remote and the square, bulky set in the corner crackled to life with a burst of static that faded into an urgent news report about the hospital bombing, of which the efforts to tend the wounded and sort through the chaos had been hindered by the rapidly swelling blizzard.

Natasha listened intently with her back turned to the screen, packing the leftover gauze and tape into the medical kit again, but there was no mention of a mysterious couple dressed in black seen exiting the scene.

It made her feel uneasy, being unable to leave the city, the ruined hospital still smoldering just a couple of streets away. But their evac chopper had been delayed by the storm, just like everything else. They'd checked in as a married couple, Henry and Brenda Clinton, the same cover they'd assumed at the beginning of their operation, jackets hiding the worst of their fire-damaged uniforms so the hotel employees wouldn't suspect anything.

Natasha filled a paper cup with water from the bathroom sink and returned to Clint's side with a couple of ibuprofen. They didn't have any stronger pain meds in the bag. She didn't think Clint would want to take them, even if they did.

He nodded his thanks and swallowed the pills first before washing them down with the water. He crushed the cup with his left hand and sent it in a neat arc to drop into the waste basket sitting beside the dresser and television. Natasha had by now realized Clint was left-handed.

"You need anything else?" she asked.

"Naw, I'm good," Clint answered.

"You should get some rest."

Clint's upper lip quirked in one of the not-quite-smiles Natasha had come to know in their months of working together. "It's just a burn, Natasha. I said I'm good."

Natasha answered him with a raised eyebrow and walked over to the bathroom. She turned on the water again, all the way to hot, and wet another washcloth. She shoved her hair out of the way and draped it on the back of her neck. For a moment the heat prickled her skin, but it soon cooled in the chill air until it raised gooseflesh on her arms.

Behind her Clint was absently flicking through channels. Everything was in Russian or Armenian, and although Natasha knew Clint had a working knowledge in both languages, he ended up clicking the television off with a dissatisfied grunt.

She wanted to take a hot shower. Perhaps it would help dispel the deep, trembling cold she felt within her gut. It would be good to wash the smell of smoke out of her hair and clean off the ash that still clung to her skin. But she hadn't brought any change of clothes, and didn't think she could face having to change back into her soiled uniform after she'd cleaned herself up. She glanced fleetingly over to Clint, sprawled on the bed on top of the covers with his shirt off, and wondered if he would mind if she climbed under the sheets naked.

"What about you?" Clint asked, turning and catching her gaze, speaking to be heard over the rushing water. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine, Barton," Natasha growled. Too quickly. She shut the faucet off sharply, and dropped the washcloth into the bottom of the sink.

"Whatever you say, Romanoff," said Clint, gruffly teasing but with a hint of hostility. Natasha noted the renewed use of their surnames.

She felt suddenly and irrationally as if she was supposed to apologize for something.

She shut her eyes and breathed through her nose, smelling more smoke, more ash.

* * *

_Natasha turned to leave but motion caught the corner of her eye. She saw the sheets move on a hospital bed close to the growing fire, churning and twisting as they fought to disgorge the child within them. The child rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. It struggled to its feet. It seemed to Natasha that she could see herself reflected in its strangely fearless eyes, a distant black figure with red hair that matched the angry flames. Red and yellow light rippled across the child's pale, innocent face and consumed it, shielding its writhing body from Natasha's eyes._

* * *

"Are you cold?"

She realized she was trembling. She gripped the sides of the sink hard to stop her fingers from shaking.

"It's cold in here."

"Climb on in, then," he said, lifting the edge of the sheets with his left hand, smiling perhaps a bit slyly.

She tried to smile back but she couldn't. She was so cold, so tired, felt so dammed drained. An operation had never before had this kind of effect on her. It would be nice to simply curl under thick blankets, feel Clint's firm, warm body beside her, try to get some sleep. She thought distantly, somewhat detached, that it would be the first time she could remember sleeping with somebody she didn't have any immediate plans to kill.

She crawled into the bed and tugged the blankets over her shoulders, leaning her back against the headboard, almost shoulder to shoulder with Clint, who nudged slightly closer to her, perhaps to share his body heat. The blankets were thinner than they looked. She was still trembling. Without quite realizing it, gesture so casual, almost familiar, Clint reached over his arm and slung it over her shoulders.

She had learned so much about him in those past months. She knew his voice, his movements, the way he took his coffee and brushed his teeth at night. She knew he had his pilot's license and a private plane that SHIELD might not even know about. He liked to watch football on Sunday afternoons with potato chips and a cold beer. And, although both their identities were still guarded jealously and cautiously as only people in their profession could do, Natasha thought she had never felt so close to someone in all her life.

Natasha let her head fall against his arm, and shut her eyes, abandoning caution in favor of fatigue, letting herself, for only a moment, surrender to his presence, allow his warmth and scent and feel of his uniform against her wrist encompass her, trying to forget where she was, what events had led her to this circumstance, the feel of flame licking her face, the cry of dying children in her ears.

* * *

_The child clung to Natasha's neck with wiry arms. Natasha was unable to tell if the wetness on her neck was from the child's hot tears or blood. All she could hear was the pained screaming of the child against her chest, rattling inside her ribs, small and thin and delicate, writhing in her arms as though it wished for her to release it into the air._

* * *

"What could we have done?" she whispered, somehow in her quest to erase from her memory all the horrors of the day also forgetting her vow to not speak of it, to never mention this failure to anyone else ever again, least of all to Clint who already knew it so personally. "How did we let this happen?" They were questions she honestly didn't want answered, because if there was anything worse than the knowing there hadn't been anything to do then it was the realization that there, in fact, had been.

Edris Namazi, radicalized terrorist with a penchant for setting bombs off in crowded streets and in subway stations. Natasha hadn't even been given the kill order – that had been Clint's job. Natasha's only job had been to stop the package from being delivered. Something she had failed spectacularly at.

"It wasn't our fault, Natasha," Clint answered her too quickly with words that Natasha knew by now held no meaning and that he himself couldn't possibly believe. "We did everything we could."

"We didn't. If we had…there's never enough –" Natasha answered, eyes still shut. Her words spilled off her tongue without her consent. For a moment she was afraid she was going to keep talking, would spill secrets buried so far inside her that they had forgotten the feel of sunlight on the spines of their syllables, or could no longer be shaped into words at all.

Clint didn't answer, and his silence spelled his agreement. His arm tightened slightly around her shoulder, in a comforting squeeze Natasha had never before experienced, as though he was actually there, actually cared, perhaps understood. She wondered if this feeling, knotted in her chest, was the same nameless, cruel frustration he had felt when the policeman had blocked his way to Martinello's burning car.

And in that moment, briefly, fleetingly, like a hazy drug creeping its tendrils through her brain, she wondered why the Red Room had always drilled into her mind that human attachment was unwise. This – this companionship she shared with Clint – this uncanny connection – how could that possibly make her weaker?

* * *

_Barton was still carrying his own child, which looked stiff and motionless in his arms. His eyes were dark and hard, almost lost. A woman carrying a Red Cross bag rushed over to him, but Barton shook his head. Natasha could tell by the deep lines etched by the sides of Barton's mouth that the child was dead. He seemed reluctant to let go of the body._

* * *

Somehow Clint was looking at her, his face very close, his breath warm on her cheeks. His eyes were captivating, depthless pits brimming with mystery that Natasha could grab hold of and unlock, if only he should present her with the key.

"Natasha, I –"

"Clint…" she breathed, relishing the taste of his name on her tongue, wondering what it would feel like to kiss someone for no other motive than to feel their breath in one's mouth, not for any hidden, sinister agenda, not even for love, just to feel their presence, their blood coursing through their veins, heart pumping through his skin, chest to chest –

"Natasha, I'm sorry…It's not that I don't want to. It's just…I can't."

Clint was looking away now, across the room at the blank wall with a nail hammered into it that had perhaps once held some sort of picture.

"She still has that much hold on you, huh?" said Natasha, words curiously stifled.

It had been five months since Martinello had died and Natasha had sensed the subtle change within Clint's being. He had somehow adopted a steely, harder edge, unnoticeable accept that Natasha noticed everything – especially about her partner. They were being called Strike Team Delta, now, around headquarters. Natasha sometimes wondered if the Clint she knew now would have made the same choice in Sao Paulo all those months ago – not even a year yet but somehow more than a lifetime ago.

She had once asked him, cautiously, tentatively, how it was he thought Martinello had died. She had been unable to erase Coulson's sinister words aboard the Quinjet _"Kid should be careful. Attachment can be dangerous in a career like his."_ Fury's distant, watching eyes had plagued her with a vague but penetrating suspicion. The Red Room had never been squeamish about destroying its agents' every possible distraction. Could it be SHIELD held the same policy? Barton had all but laughed in her face at her suggestion. She couldn't imagine why he might still have reason to trust, even now.

One corner of Clint's lips dug into his cheek. "You have no idea."

Something unfamiliar burst inside of Natasha's stomach, as rapidly as food poisoning did nausea. After a moment of indecision she classified it as disappointment. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, by halves smothered by her own instinct and her own free will.

"It's okay, Clint." After all, Natasha was no stranger to ghosts, possessed many of her own with unmatched jealousy.

Natasha had stopped trembling now, and slid down until her head rested on the pillow, hard and lumpy beneath her head. Clint shifted as well, turning so his back faced her. She might have taken it as rejection, but she immediately recognized it for what it truly was. Natasha could have quite easily buried a knife between his shoulders. She thought that she had never before seen Clint display such vulnerability. And suddenly, with a shock like electricity, she realized this was intimacy, true intimacy, fully clothed, pure and gentle comfort. She focused on breathing through her tight throat, momentarily overwhelmed by this gift. She wondered if that was what normal people called trust.

* * *

_She wondered how much of her own blood she would have to shed to wash away her multitude of sins, etched into her arms in dull pink scars and purple bruises and powder burns from her pistol. She could no longer remember all the reasons. She wondered if there ever were any reasons. She wondered if there were even any now. She knew Barton had thought the same because she'd heard his uneven breathing at night and felt the sweat on his forehead under the beds of her fingers. She could feel his own fingers quivering on her shoulder, uniform so thin it was almost as if his flesh rested on her own._

* * *

She stared at the ceiling, doused in shadows. The wind continued to beat against the thin panes of the window, whistling in the alley, pounding against the walls of the hotel like some monster threatening to come inside. Natasha turned on her side until all she could see was Clint's wide shoulders, all she could smell was his sweat and the ash clinging to the fibers of clothes and the hair on his back.

She followed the steadily deepening, even rise and fall of his shoulders, merely a shadow in the darkness as he fell asleep. She turned on her back again and stared at the ceiling, testing how long she could go without blinking, letting water burn in her eyes as dust fell and stung on her exposed eyeballs. Finally she conceded to blinking and then opened her eyes to try again.

Clint stirred slightly by her side. Each of his movements seemed magnified in their small shared space. He'd have been dead by now, had he been one of her marks. The digital clock on top of the television emanated a red glow into the room, steadily flickering onward into the night under Natasha's careful scrutiny.

Clint slept restlessly because of his injuries. Natasha didn't sleep at all.

Next chapter: Still in the works. Not to worry, though, it will still be making an appearance next weekend.


	6. Homecoming

The light of Natasha's computer screen glared blue atop Agent Jasper Sitwell's smooth, bald head and glinted off his glasses.

"Agent Romanoff," he said, voice terse and manner direct – something Natasha could admire if she found it in herself to do so. Too much of life was wasted on pleasantries.

"Agent Sitwell," she answered him, minimizing the collection of blank claims forms and documents on her computer screen – even though it was hardly something she didn't want Sitwell to see –p after all his Level Six trumped her Level Two by a landslide and it wouldn't have been anything he hadn't seen before. She just didn't like it when people looked over her shoulder.

"Have you been in contact with Agent Barton recently?" Sitwell continued stiffly, adjusting his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Recently as in last week coming back from Tashkent?" said Natasha, raising an eyebrow. And tacked on almost unconsciously, something like loyalty stirring in her gut, "What do you need him for?"

Sitwell did not answer her. Natasha had very rarely had contact with Agent Sitwell, superior as he was he was more likely to tell her what to do then ask her any questions about it. She didn't think he had quite warmed up to her, yet. Much of SHIELD hadn't. Despite her now swiftly approaching one-year anniversary some Agents were still predisposed to fingering their holsters when passing her in the hallway, just in case she should show any signs of suddenly going rogue.

Sitwell ran his tongue over his teeth, "Barton hasn't been spending much time on the base recently."

"Mostly because he keeps being assigned to different countries," said Natasha flatly.

Sitwell gave no indication he had been irritated by her slight mouthing off. "You know where he is now?"

Natasha knew Barton did not spend nights in his quarters, as most other SHIELD agents did when staying at the base. Natasha had assumed he'd continued to live in his Brooklyn apartment, now empty after his girlfriend's death. She had also assumed this was something SHIELD would know – and the first place they would look should they need to contact him. It was odd that they now were apparently unaware of Barton's whereabouts – odder still that Sitwell wanted Natasha to know.

"You got an operation for him?" Natasha said guardedly.

"Agent Romanoff, please answer my question directly," said Sitwell, mouth in a straight line, eyes ghosting across her face and over her shoulder in annoyance. He hooked his fingers in his belt.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. He was trying to tell her something. An Agent of his caliber did not give such obvious tells. He was uneasy about something. He wanted Natasha to know that.

"No, Agent Sitwell," she answered formally, "I don't know where Agent Barton is. Do you?"

"To tell you the truth," said Sitwell, "we don't."

Unease stirred deeply within Natasha's stomach. She tried to push past the startling collection of thoughts that leapt immediately to her mind, not least among them injury or kidnap. She hadn't realized she'd grown close enough to Barton to be so concerned for his safety. Then again, maybe he was only visiting his mother – if he had a mother. Natasha often had to remind herself that not everyone in this world was as alone as herself.

"Does Agent Coulson know where he is?"

"Agent Coulson has given Barton two weeks leave. He says he's gone to West Virginia."

"But he's not there?"

"We were tracking him. He drove down but hasn't checked into any hotels using his own name."

For a moment Natasha's stomach jumped with concern before another emotion overtook it. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Tracking him, why?"

The small office, peppered with tables and computer monitors, was empty save for Sitwell and Natasha. Natasha noted Sitwell had closed the door behind him when he'd entered. They were not about to be overheard.

"Barton has had several unexplained absences in the past year. We were growing concerned –"

"Who's we?" said Natasha quickly, "Director Fury? Hill?"

Sitwell leaned forward, elbow on the desk beside Natasha, eyes glinting with the blue light from her computer screen. "I and a collection of chosen personnel have been acting independently. I wanted to get a fix on Barton, get a feel for what he's been up to. If it checks out than no harm done –"

"And if it doesn't?" Natasha asked quickly, pulse racing in her wrist.

"If it doesn't then…" Sitwell shrugged and left Natasha's question unanswered. If it doesn't then we'll be able to hand Barton over the Fury in a neat parcel of evidence tied with a pretty pink bow.

Natasha leaned toward Sitwell until she could see the individual hairs of his eyebrows, trimmed, not a one out of place. "And what do you want me to do?" she asked, voice lowered in exaggerated confidence. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

Sitwell suddenly straightened up. Natasha wondered if her close proximity had disturbed him. "Nothing, Agent Romanoff. I'm sure it's quite alright. I merely wanted to ask you if you knew anything SHIELD didn't."

He smiled tightly, nodded again and walked out of the office, heels clicking on the floor and leaving the door open behind him. Natasha sat back against her chair and drummed her fingers on the desk. She chewed her lip, Chap Stick tasting waxy on her tongue. Sitwell had bated the hook, done it with such precision and finesse he might have well slid her an invitation under the door. She was left no choice. She had to find Barton, wherever he was, and, depending on the circumstances when she did, either warn him off or report back to headquarters, evidence wrapped in a pink bow.

* * *

Natasha walked almost forty-five miles before she reached the turnoff of the main road where the by now familiar treads of Clint's truck tires turned right onto a one-lane, dust covered path that wound up toward the wood of closely knit pine trees. It was beginning to grow dark, sun settling low over the tips of the trees and stretching long shadows across the tall grass and dry dirt.

A blister had formed on Natasha's left heel. Her toes felt cramped and pinched inside her hiking boots and she scarfed an energy bar followed by a swallow of water before she set off down the path. She tried not to let herself hope the end might be somewhere near at hand but attempted to adopt a steely resolve – no matter how much longer she might have to walk.

It turned out not very long. After turning a wide, sweeping bend in the road a small light appeared in the distance, like the flickering wick of a candle. As Natasha drew closer the light fit into the shape of a distant square window, stuck into the front of a house almost lost in the shadows of the surrounding trees.

Natasha peeled off the dirt drive and waded through the field of knee high grass until she reached a thicket of trees in which to hide herself from any eyes peering from the window. She walked parallel to the road, brushing soundlessly past branches and budding leaves, shirtsleeves and hair getting tangled in thorns and brambles.

As she grew closer Clint's truck took form out of the settling darkness, parked to the side of the house, in front of a barn with its large front doors thrown open, interior gaping and black. The truck appeared to be the only vehicle around, unless there were more cars inside the barn.

The house had a front porch, fenced in with banisters painted with chipped white paint. There was a screen door and potted plants hung under the windows, braced with green shutters. The picture looked strangely serene from where Natasha stood, house and lawn doused with the gentle light of the rising moon behind it and the blush tinted light of the setting sun to its face.

She pulled out her Glock before darting across the lawn. She stepped onto the porch stairs on her tiptoes, afraid of loose boards that might creak. Her eyes flickered to corners and into the rafters of the awning but there didn't appear to be any surveillance cameras.

The front door was open behind the screen. Crickets chirped in the grass. A moth beat its wings against the porch light, casting large, wobbly shadows across the porch. Natasha peered through the screen door into the empty entranceway of the house. There didn't appear to be anyone in sight. She slid inside the house smoothly and decisively, holding her breath.

The smells of coffee, tomato soup, and wet paint mingled uncertainly together in the hall. Natasha could hear the bubbling of a pot on the stove from down the hallway, presumably from the kitchen. One of Clint's boots was propping open the front door. His coat hung on a row of hooks in the wall, next to his keys, a cowboy hat, and a cheap black umbrella folded into a messy packet.

Natasha's gun felt warm and smooth in the palm of her hand. She could hear movement in the room at the end of the hall, clanging of pots and pans and clinking of cutlery as someone prepared dinner. Light flickered below the closed door.

She approached the door warily, ears probing the surrounding house for any other occupants. There was a flight of stairs leading to a second story to her right. To her left was a sitting room, an open floor plan with a stone fireplace set into the wall and a television in the corner.

Natasha's attention was once again drawn to the closed door of the kitchen in front of her. A strange, musical tone hit her ears and for a moment vibrated indecisively before Natasha realized it was someone humming – a woman.

It was then that her foot landed on a loose floorboard. It creaked sharp and loud in the silent house. Natasha smothered a curse under her breath and gripped her gun tighter in her hand. The humming stopped behind the door.

Natasha was swearing fluently in Russian inside her head. She darted quickly down the hallway and paused only briefly with her back to the wall. She cocked her gun, held it parallel to her face and kicked the door open with her toe.

It shrieked on its hinges and hit the apple green wall behind it with a crack. She pulled her gun forward, aiming it into the room and blinked, finding herself already staring directly down the barrel of a pistol aimed below a pair of frightened brown eyes.

Natasha didn't lower her gun.

"Martinello," Natasha said, unfazed, "you're supposed to be dead."

Leah ran her tongue over her lips, gun not dropping from where it was trained on Natasha's nose. "Morello, actually."

Natasha was impressed. The girl's voice, though low and dry, held hardly a quiver.

"Morello Barton, now, if we were striving for accuracy," cut in a voice from behind her. She turned her head a fraction of an inch to see Clint standing in the shadows, watching her calculatingly but calmly over the top of his own cocked revolver. Barton was the only one who had ever been able to sneak up on her.

"Clint," said Natasha. For a moment she hesitated, knowing she couldn't cover both of the guns trained on her head at the same time. She recalled hazily, somewhere behind her fight or flight instinct, that one of the guns belonged to Clint. Not to mention the other belonged to his dead girlfriend.

"I'll thank you if you stopped aiming that gun at my wife, Romanoff," said Clint, evenly, almost casually, but firmly, assuring Natasha with the renewed use of her surname that Clint would shoot her with little hesitation if she didn't do as he said – partnership or not.

Natasha's eyes rotated from Leah to Clint, gun still pointed at the girl's head. Leah's hair was brown now, the blond dye completely grown out. Her eyes were also brown, instead of their usual green, but there was no doubt in Natasha's mind about her identity.

"Stand down, Romanoff," said Clint, voice stiff, coolly warning. Natasha vividly remembered the wrinkles at the corners of his closed eyes while he kneeled in defeat in front of her in the gymnasium, Coulson pinning his arms behind his back.

Natasha's arm swung to her side like a pendulum. Clint's gray eyes continued to watch her, weighing each infinitesimal movement, possibly gauging the rate of her pulse in her wrist and throat. She tucked her gun back into its holster, raising her hands to shoulder height, meeting Clint's eyes, recalling the way the sun had glinted off his pupils at the end of a dirty alley in Brazil.

Clint dropped his own gun, stowing it in his belt, revealing a brief flash of the pale skin of his chest. Clint looked away, lips breaking into a reassuring smile directed at Leah – Martinello – Morello – who, in turn, dropped her own weapon. Her hands were shaking. Clint stepped forward and gently eased the pistol from Leah's fingers.

"Well, now that we're no longer trying to kill each other…" he turned back to Natasha, wrapping one arm protectively around Leah's hips, left hand now cradling her pistol, band of gold glinting off his finger. "Natasha Romanoff, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Laura Barton."

The hand Laura brought up to caress the back of Clint's fist wresting on her hip was ordained with a matching gold ring. She watched Natasha with eyes that had not quite softened from her initial scare.

"Congratulations," said Natasha dryly.

"Natasha," said Laura quietly, bobbing her chin slightly in recognition, possibly welcome. Her fingers were still shaking. Clint's hand rested just on the waist of Laura's jeans, fingertips brushing against her swollen stomach. Natasha noticed pale blue paint wedged in Clint's fingernails.

"Sweetheart," Clint said softly and abruptly the tense, sticky silence was shattered. "Would you like to offer our guest some coffee?"

* * *

"Fury organized it." Clint's voice was soft across the table, staring at a point somewhere over Natasha's shoulder, hand resting on Laura's – his wife's – knee somewhere under the table. Laura was clutching a steaming mug of coffee in front of her in a transparent attempt to hide the trembling of her hands.

Natasha sat across from them, back to the cabinets and counters, full view of the kitchen and the still open door that led to the hallway and living room, all exits covered under her gaze.

Laura's eyes flickered toward Clint before she spoke, voice halting. "I – Fury told me Clint would know – I wouldn't have agreed to it had I realized –" Natasha saw the muscles of Clint's arm ripple under his shirt and knew he had given his wife's leg a reassuring squeeze.

"So I was right," said Natasha. "Fury was behind your death."

Clint smiled faintly. "Attachments are dangerous in my line of work. Anything can compromise you. If word ever got out – I am truly appreciative of his efforts, if not all his methods."

"Does anyone else know?" said Natasha, looking from Laura to Clint, to the crease of worry between her eyebrows and his lips fixed in a taught line.

"No," Clint answered. "Not even Coulson." His eyes were penetrating, glued to Natasha's every movement. She felt as if she was under a microscope. She took a sip of her coffee, black and bitter. It burned her tongue. "How did you find us, Natasha?"

Natasha breathed deeply. She forced her lips into a smile, "Trying to make sure it won't happen again?" When Clint didn't answer Natasha swallowed and continued, "After you didn't turn up in West Virginia like you were supposed, I used a little intuition. I guess I've come to know you better than I realized. First I found the register of your private plane – Henry Clinton, really?"

"It's my go to," said Clint with a dry smile and a shrug. "Guess I'll have to change that."

"A little computer searching, not entirely legal," Natasha continued, miming her fingers tapping over a keyboard on the table in front of her, "And I traced you here, Waverly, Iowa." She tacked on after a moment of thought, "Sitwell put me onto it. He said you've been noticeable absent lately. He was afraid you were defecting."

"Is that what you thought, too?" There was perhaps something of a bite in Clint's voice. His eyes were hard.

Laura stood up sharply, chair legs scraping against the linoleum floor. She turned her back on the table and walked to the sink, throwing her coffee into the basin with a splash and gurgle of the drain. She braced her hands on the counter and bowed her head over her bulging stomach so her hair covered her face.

"I…" Natasha couldn't seem to look away from Laura's figure, the wrinkles over her shirt pulled tightly over her belly. Her bare feet with the toes painted purple. "I didn't know what to think, Clint. But I – whatever it was I wasn't going to turn you in.…I knew that. I still know that."

She had decided long ago. SHIELD was no place for her without Clint Barton. If, indeed, he had been leaving, or defecting, or doing anything else to jeopardize his position as an agent Natasha had resolved to join him.

Clint's eyes softened. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Natasha said shortly. "But as for Sitwell – well – you're going to have to come up with some kind of story for him. And if I – if there's any way I can help…." Natasha's throat was strangely dry.

Laura spun around. Her eyes were wet. "Thank you," she said, voice thick. She laid her hand on Clint's shoulder. Her fingernails, too, were painted purple. She didn't seem to be wearing any makeup. Natasha realized with a jolt inside her stomach that Laura was beautiful. Beautiful with her soft brown waves and large eyes and gentle lines around her lips that spoke of smiles and laughter. She tried to align her with the same girl sitting behind the desk – Leah Martinello from Logistics – but couldn't erase this startling new image with her brown hair and wedding band on her finger.

Clint brought up his hand and caressed his wife's fingertips with his own. His eyes didn't leave Natasha's face. She almost wished he'd look away. "Yes. Thank you, Natasha. You don't know what that means to us."

Natasha hadn't any inclination how to respond to this. Her mind was spinning with the strange turn this evening had taken, all the answers that had been unexpectedly – almost unkindly – answered in a blink of an eye, this host of new possibilities that had sprung up out of the ground and caught Natasha unaware. Again Clint had managed to get the jump on her, throw her off-balance as only he had ever been able to do.

"Aw damn," Clint said suddenly, and leapt up from his chair, "I left the paint out in the nursery." He darted away. Natasha could hear his feet pound up the stairs to the second floor.

Laura stood watching the open door where her husband had disappeared for a moment before she turned and went to the stove, where the tomato soup had somehow been peacefully simmering all through the evening.

"You're probably hungry," she said over her shoulder to Natasha, smiling stiffly. Natasha was suddenly acutely aware that she was alone in the kitchen with this woman – Laura – Leah – Clint's wife.

"I – um – thank you," Natasha said awkwardly, unfamiliar with the pleasantries. "If there's – um – anything I can do to help…."

Laura laughed slightly, opening a drawer and withdrawing a ladle for the soup. "Thank you, no. You just sit tight." She moved with surprising fluidity considering her bulging stomach, going through the cabinets to pull out bowels and spoons, filling three glasses with water and then pulling a beer for Clint out of the fridge.

It all seemed so incongruently domestic. Natasha could not wrap her mind around it. Clint filling the dishwasher, painting the nursery. Clint grilling steaks on the patio. Clint shopping for cereal in the supermarket, vacuuming the carpet, picking up baby toys –

"When are you due?" said Natasha, disarmed at how discomforted she felt.

"Early October." Laura smiled. Her hand ghosted across her stomach.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"A – uh – a boy?" she asked, remembering the blue paint. Natasha wondered what was taking Clint so long. It would be just like him to purposely leave Natasha down here alone to make nice with his wife for longer than necessary.

Laura smiled and nodded, hand touching her stomach again. For a moment Natasha wondered what it would feel like, carrying a child. If she could feel the child moving within her, could sense the emotions of the baby. If the child could, in turn, feel the mind and emotions of its mother. Natasha shoved these thoughts far into a dark, unvisited corner of her mind, but before she could do so it struck her abruptly, with a sickening awareness, that Clint had already known he was going to be a father during the Namazi operation in Yerevan, when he had carried the dead child out of a burning hospital. No wonder he hadn't wanted to let go of the body.

No wonder he had refuted her offer in the hotel. But no. No. Natasha did not need to think about that. Clint was her partner. Her damned partner.

Laura set one of the glasses of water in front of Natasha, smiling, asking if she was finished with her coffee. Laura. Clint's wife. Clint's damned wife. Carrying Clint's child.

Clint's footsteps clattered down the staircase. Apparently he only moved silently when out in the field.

"Mmm, smells good," he said as he walked back into the kitchen. "I put a towel out in the guestroom, Nat. You'll probably want a shower. You look like hell."

Natasha smiled. Laura swatted Clint lightly on the arm. He was grinning. The tense atmosphere of before seemed to have completely evaporated. Laura ladled soup into the three bowls and Clint brought them to the table. It all felt so…surreal. Natasha could not wrap her mind around it. Clint gently teasing his wife. Clint opening the fridge. Clint slicing a loaf of bread. Clint married. Clint going to be a father.

Natasha was suddenly acutely aware that she was intruding. This was no place for her. She had no right to be sitting in the kitchen, in their midst, this – this family – so alien and distant from her that it was as though they came from two entirely different species.

Laura was speaking about getting Natasha some clean pajamas.

"Listen – I – you don't have to do this. I don't mind heading back into town. Get a room –"

"Don't be silly," Laura cut in hospitably. "We're happy to have you stay."

"Besides," Clint added. "Local town doesn't have any motels. City's three hours away – no way am I bringing you at this time of night. Unless, of course, you'd like to walk again?"

Natasha was forced to concede, although she resolved to leave first thing in the morning. After dinner Clint showed her to her room. Laura's eyes lingered on Clint's hand, clasped over Natasha's shoulder.

* * *

Natasha looked up when knuckles wrapped lightly on her door.

"Come in." She stood to meet Laura as she came through the door, a pair of pajamas folded in her arms.

"There should be a toothbrush and soap in the bathroom," she said, laying the pajamas on the corner of the bed.

Laura looked around the room, to the peeling wallpaper and sawdust in the corners. "Sorry it's not quite finished. There's still a lot of stuff we're trying to get done around the house. We're going to knock out a wall in the kitchen, open it up to the living room –" Laura was babbling. Natasha could tell she was nervous.

"It's fine. Thank you," Natasha cut her off, smiling, looking charming.

"I – uh – hope you have a pleasant night and if there's anything at all you need, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you," Natasha said again. "Everything's been wonderful."

Laura smiled and walked back to the door. She turned back to Natasha before leaving, lips moving soundlessly as she apparently thought of the right words to say. "I don't know you very well…Natasha." She was staring levelly at Natasha, brown eyes liquid and warm. "But Clint's always spoken highly of you and – well, what I mean to say is, anyone who's gained his trust has me confidence, too."

Natasha swallowed. "Thank you."

"Thank you," said Laura firmly, "for everything you've done for him."


	7. Out of Sight

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Let your heart be light_

_From now on, our troubles will be out of sight_

There was a target in front of her. The handle of her gun felt firm and true in her palm. The crack of the bullet leaving its mouth cut through her ears. The target changed to a figure of a slumped man, hood covering his face. The gun fired, kicking her wrist backward in its recoil, once, twice, three times she shot him before he slumped to the floor, blood leaking out of the heavy canvass covering his head. The target shifted again. A little girl dropping in a hallway, face covered with the dancing lights of a Christmas tree. Fire leapt at the end of the hallway, consuming everything in its path, groping the walls and turning the carpet to ash, licking Natasha's face with warm tendrils of flame. A baby was crying. A child screaming for help. Natasha felt the slick handle of her gun slip from her fingers and –

She woke with a start, panting for breath, heart hammering against her ribcage. The sheets stuck to her sweat covered legs and she threw them off of her where they slid off the bed completely and landing in a rumpled pile on the floor.

Her breath scraped roughly through the air, winding through her ears. She blinked to clear the bright shadow of flames that still leapt in front of her eyes. She could still hear the baby crying.

She jumped as she heard a door creak open but she realized that it was to the room next door.

"Shhh," hissed a voice, muffled through the wall. "Shhh, Coop. It's alright. Daddy's here now."

The baby was still crying and Natasha realized, thought sinking into her stomach like a dull weight, that it was Cooper, woken in the night by some abstract fear or want of human companionship.

Natasha wondered if the baby could sense her presence, if it knew what slept in the room next door, what danger lurked inside its own house, what she had done to other babies just as innocent as he.

Nausea rolled in Natasha's stomach and she slipped out of bed, wood floor cool against the soles of her bare feet. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the bathrobe Laura had given her over her shoulders and tied the string tightly around her waist. She felt wide awake and jittery. The digital clock on the dresser blinked red in the darkness of her room, reading a quarter after two in the morning. She knew there was no way she'd fall back to sleep now.

Clint was making comforting, cooing sounds now and slowly Cooper's cries were quieted, replaced by the gentle creaking of a rocking chair as Clint tenderly lulled his son back to peaceful slumber. The fact that Clint was a father somehow never seemed so poignant to Natasha until this moment.

She put one hand on the knob of her door and one near the hinges to quiet the squeak as she eased it open. Her feet padded soundlessly down the hall, walking on her toes, taking extra care as she past the still open doorway of Cooper's room, Clint momentarily silhouetted against the lamp turned on in the corner, hunched over the bundle of blankets in his arms that hid his son from Natasha's gaze.

She forced herself onward, creeping down the stairs. She paused in the kitchen for a moment, wanting to procure a glass of water to soothe her raw throat but not wanting the sound of the faucet to attract Clint's attention. She glided through the darkness until she reached the sitting room, hulking, shaggy shape of the Christmas tree standing dark in the corner.

Natasha crept across the floor, dodging the coffee table in the darkness. She sank unto the sofa, cushions sagging under her weight. It was chilly in living room. The darkness hid the walls, giving the illusion that she was in a place much bigger than what it actually was. She curled into a ball, thighs drawn toward her breast, and lay her head against her knees, kneecaps fitting snuggly against her eye sockets.

She breathed in the scent of her robe. Laura's robe. It had obviously come from storage. She could smell faint traces of mildew and mothballs. It smelt…homey. Even comforting.

She had watched Clint at dinner that night, sitting beside Laura, laughing as she fed spoonfuls of green mush into Cooper's pudgy mouth. Paul McCartney and Bing Crosby had played softly on the radio, candles cast their golden light across the white tablecloth and Natasha had wondered how he did it. How did he kill so effortlessly yet still have the capacity to love so fully? She had sat there, transfixed by the light dancing in his eyes and felt like an outsider, a trespasser with this family which she could never truly be any part of.

Natasha's head snapped upward as the room was suddenly bathed in multi-colored light from the Christmas tree. Standing on the threshold was Clint, having descended the stairs just as soundlessly as she.

He smiled. The rainbow of light across his face made the clefts and lines of his features even more pronounced so the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to swallow all of his eyes. Somehow Natasha had never realized how much older Clint was than her.

"Sorry Coop woke you."

"It's okay," she murmured, looking away to the Christmas tree, staring at the red and green baubles hung from its branches, smelling balsam on the cool air.

"You alright?"

"I – yeah." She swallowed.

She heard him shift his stance, floorboards creaking under his feet. She could tell he didn't believe her, was glad when he didn't press it.

"Want something to drink? Coffee or maybe some hot chocolate?"

Natasha smiled fleetingly. "No. I'm okay."

"You know," said Clint, crossing his arms over his chest, teasing lilt evident in his voice, "Santa Clause won't come if you're awake."

Natasha nearly laughed. "God, Clint, you're turning into a father."

"Good," said Clint, simply, but with a hint of something Natasha couldn't quite discern in his voice. Uncertainty, maybe?

"You're – um – you're good with him," Natasha said, feeling curiously awkward.

"I hope so. I…ah, never really had much of a model."

Natasha laid her forehead back on her knees, drawing her legs closer to her chest, grasping her hands tightly. She was suddenly cold, suddenly couldn't bear to look at Clint, or at the tree in the corner, or think about the baby sleeping upstairs. She shut her eyes tightly against the lights glistening off tinsel and shiny Christmas ornaments.

"Nat…" She heard Clint step closer, could almost feel the heat emanating from his body, could smell baby powder clinging to the sleeves of his robe.

"I shouldn't have come," she whispered into her pajama pants. "I'm sorry, Clint. I – I can't…."

"Don't be stupid, Nat. You're welcome here. Laura and I are happy to –"

"It isn't safe for me to be here." Natasha couldn't explain the dull weight of dread that had settled in her chest. She couldn't possibly explain the feeling of apathy with which she had before viewed the lives of the many children she had killed. She couldn't explain because Clint, a new, fresh father drunk with the love of his child, couldn't possibly understand. She couldn't possibly allow herself to stay, to allow her presence to blead into the innocent happiness of this family.

"What do you mean not safe?"

"I'm not good with kids, Clint. I – it isn't good for me to be here."

For a moment Natasha was confused by the muffled, choking sound Clint was making, and then she realized that he was laughing, chuckling warmly in the darkness.

"Natasha, it doesn't matter. I wasn't sure about kids either until Coop was born. You'll get used to it. Maybe someday you'll even –"

"Dammit, Barton!" Natasha didn't raise her voice. Her words slipped through her lips in a hiss like a snake, or an angry cat. She lifted her head and stared at Clint, surprise momentarily flickering through his eyes, face doused in the vibrant colors of the Christmas tree. "I'm serious! Don't you see –" Natasha choked on her words because it was clear by the blatant confusion spilled on Clint's face that he did not see. "I – I used to kill kids, Clint. Lots of kids. In Dubai I detonated a van with a family of six. In the Red Room we would – spar. But – but if the instructors thought the other person had made a mistake or was too weak they'd tell us to snap their neck or – or –"

Natasha felt her eyes burn and dammit the Black Widow didn't cry. Natasha never cried.

"Once I was supposed to take out this guy – some politician – and I can't even remember why he had to die but he had his seven-year-old daughter with him in his apartment and I shot her in the head before she'd even registered something was wrong. It was Christmas, Clint. She was bringing cookies out for Santa to set by the tree."

Across from her, the empty fireplace grate belched darkness into the room. On the mantel above it hung three perfectly spaced, red and white stockings.

"And she's dead now," Natasha didn't know why she was still talking. The droplet of warm liquid down her cheek was alien. "And I didn't even give a damn."

"Natasha," Clint's breath was warm on her face. He was leaning on the floor in front of her, one hand lying heavily on her back. "Natasha, that wasn't you." His voice was soft, stung more than if he'd been shouting because it was all lies and Natasha knew it was all lies. "Natasha, this is you. You fought for those children in Yerevan. You wouldn't let anyone touch Cooper. I know it. He's safe here, perfectly safe here with you. I trust you."

Natasha shook her head, hair dislodging from behind her ear to cover her face. A strand glued itself to her cheek with the remaining trace of her tear. "Clint, I didn't care. I – maybe I still don't. You don't understand what that's like, to have yourself so erased, to let someone implant their own thoughts and desires so tangibly into your own brain that they become part of you. I – I wanted to kill that child. I remember deliberately aiming for her head –"

_What if those thoughts were still there? What if they had merely been repressed, never truly been erased? What if they were simply biding their time, waiting to again emerge?_

She wanted Clint to understand. She wanted him to recognize her for the monster she truly was. She wanted him to stop looking at her with such pity, to channel it into anger or disgust because she knew that was what she deserved.

"Clint, I – I can't trust myself here."

"Tasha…" his voice tickled her ear, made a shiver run down her spine and hair stand on end on the back of her neck. She felt something well in her stomach and grow, roiling, bubbling until it clogged her throat. His other hand rested on her knee until his arms almost engulfed her entirely and all she could smell was him. It seemed to her suddenly, in a distant, disdainful part of her mind, that she was so small. So small and so weak.

"Tasha, I know you. I know you. You aren't a danger. And you're stronger than the Red Room. You're better than what they wanted to make you. You have to be, otherwise you wouldn't have left." Natasha focused on breathing, on trying to relax the tangle of knots in her stomach. Clint repeated, voice soft and gentle, reminding Natasha forcefully of the whisper he had used to quiet his crying son, "I know you."

"Nobody knows me, Clint. Natalia Romanova is dead. She died in Volgograd in 1988, in the same apartment fire that killed her mother and father, and – and older brother and – baby sister."

"Natasha, I'm –"

She knew he was going to apologize again. She was sick of him apologizing. She wasn't asking for sympathy.

"I looked it up," she cut him off. "There's a certificate – a grave and everything, all their names on one stone. I don't know who paid for it." _Abram, Darya, Feodor, Natalia, Katya_. She died when she was four years old and the Red Room took her hollow shell and put something else inside, until she didn't resemble anyone at all, until she couldn't even be recognized by herself.

The Red Room has taught them to let their rolls engulf them until the thin line between truth and lies would be blurred even to their own eyes. Natasha could no longer discern what was acting and what was real emotion. A Russian nesting doll, revealing a new layer and different fact with each twist-pop of the doll's head. It was impossible to sift through the layers and find the paper thin nucleus of who she really was, to untangle Natalia Romanova or Natasha Romanoff or Nadine Roman from the unshakable web that was Black Widow.

Sometimes she thought she could catch a glimpse of it, flitting, darting hints like reflections in the surface of a lake, in laughter at a stupid joke, sautéing peppers in oil and garlic, or curling into lavender scented bubbles in a tub. But other parts of her felt real, too, other, less reassuring things like the feel of a knife in her hands, flesh against knuckles, roiling hate and swift intent to kill automatically clicking into place as easily as the room had flooded with green and red light when Clint had flicked on the light switch. What happened if those instincts were not merely products of her past, habits drilled into her mind by the Red Room and SHEILD, born of necessity and pattern and were, in fact, personal decisions, conscious choices, inclinations, pleasures, desires?

Natasha couldn't possibly know, let alone Clint.

She brought her hand up to lay atop of Clint's and squeezed it slightly, feeling his rough skin against her palm, all the strength and warmth that resided in his fingers, capable of wielding such power and death with such aptitude but yet still able to hold his son gently enough that he wouldn't break him. She was afraid of meeting his eyes, afraid of what she might do, if she might cry, might fall into his arms, surrender to this strange impulse that pounded in her chest, the same impulse that wondered what his lips would taste like on her own. But any sense of his presence would by quickly obliterated by the scent of Laura on Natasha's robe and all at once she knew with a clarity that stung the true meaning of the phrase so impossibly near and yet so far away.

"Clint…I'm sorry. I just – I can't. Right now I…can't." She looked up so that he might somehow read the truth in her eyes, staring at the bridge of his nose so she wouldn't have to read the truth in his.

She saw the muscles work in his throat as he swallowed. "Okay," he said at last. "Just know that…you're always welcome, Nat. Whenever. I mean it. Whenever you want to. Whenever you're ready."

Natasha wasn't good at gratitude. She had been given to so infrequently in her life. She was unaccustomed thankfulness but she knew that was the emotion that blossomed and grew in her gut until it ached. Her lips twitched upward in what she hoped Clint could recognize as a smile. "Thanks."

"Did you want me too…?" Clint suggested awkwardly, perhaps offering to stay up with her, or help her pack, to see her off.

"No," Natasha answered, not needing nor wanting him to finish because she was afraid she might accept, "I'll be okay."

"Alright," Clint swallowed again, and then stood, pushing off her knee. The pressure of his hand felt good. She missed the heat of his body, so close to hers, as he stepped away. "I'll tell Laura and…if you decide to…well, just know that you're welcome."

"Thanks," Natasha said again, or at least she'd meant to, but her voice got lost coming up her taut throat.

Clint smiled at her, softly, and didn't say anything else as he turned to leave, disappearing through the door and down the hall. She listened to his footsteps going up the stairs and a moment later his bedroom door swing and click shut as he joined his wife.

Natasha swallowed, tasting acid on the back of her tongue. He'd left the Christmas tree lights on. They flooded the room, creating dancing, rippling shadows on the walls. A blue light near the top of the tree, reflecting off the face of the angel perched on the highest bow, grew brighter in the brief flash that preceded a blowout and then, abruptly, it burnt out, casting the angel's face into shadow.

In the morning, Natasha had gone.


	8. Granite Lip

_"Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran, somebody shot at my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff, I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me. Soviet slug. No rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis."_

* * *

Knowing she was going to die produced an unpredicted reaction in Natasha. She'd expected she'd feel grim resignation, perhaps relief, mirroring that day in Sao Paulo when Clint had trained his bow on her nose, but instead a new and unexpected feeling burst to life in her chest with a fervor perhaps more unanticipated then the emotion itself. Panic budded in a chilled, resonating ache in her chest, spreading through her body in tendrils, coursing with the blood in her veins, numbing everything it touched. It froze her to the ground. She couldn't move, or breathe, or think. Glass from the shattered windshield bit into her shoulder. Dr. Javadi's blood soaked warmly through the back of her uniform while her own blood spread across her stomach.

And she realized – sharply, more clearly than she'd ever thought before – that she did not want to die.

Oh, God, she did not want to die.

Pain thudded dully in her lower abdomen. Darkness swirled in the corners of her eyes like smoke. She could hear a curious buzzing in her ears. Fear pounded against the walls of her skull, clouding out everything else, every thought of rescue, every idea of a last stand, of pushing herself back to her feet, of dragging herself across the ground in search of –

In search of what? What was there left? What could possibly help Natasha now?

The sheer helplessness of her situation sunk heavily in her stomach and almost overtook the cold panic. There was nothing she could possibly do. Natasha was going to die. She was going to die.

And she didn't –

Oh, God, she didn't want to die.

In a split second of realization Natasha became aware of two things. One, the buzzing in her ear was actually the static crackling of her earpiece. Two – as her chest expanded in a rush of strangled breath and exploding pain – she realized she had forgotten to breathe.

Her shoulders racked with heaving, liquid-sounding coughs. Her vision fogged with pain. She tasted copper in her mouth.

"Agent Romanoff," a voice murmured in her earpiece; the words drifted distantly into her brain, "Status."

Natasha couldn't breathe. Her hand convulsed into a fist, grappling against the dry ground beneath her. Something hot trickled over her bottom lip and down her chin.

"Status report, Agent Romanoff!" the voice insisted urgently in her ear.

"C-Coulson…" she gasped, lips forming clumsily around the word, stomach seizing in pain so fierce it made tears well in her eyes. "C-Coulson – Javadi – dead."

"Are you injured, Agent Romanoff?"

"Coulson – I – I – mission…failed."

"Dammit, Natasha! Are you hurt?"

Natasha realized, remotely, abstractly, that it was the first time Coulson had called her by her first name. Blood pumped out of the wound in her stomach with every heaving beat of her heart. She felt dizzy and disoriented.

"S-sorry," she said, words choking and slipping on the blood that clogged her throat. "I was – shot – and – Coulson –"

"We have a lock on your location," Coulson's disembodied voice crackled through her ear with such clarity that for a moment Natasha thought he was standing right beside her. "We're sending an evac chopper now. Hold on, Natasha."

"Coulson – too…late. I – don't –"

"Don't talk, Agent. Save your strength for when they get there."

His voice held such firm assurance that for a moment Natasha almost believed him. It was difficult to breathe now. Her heartbeat seemed to becoming weaker and irregular. The ground was hard and cold beneath her.

It was an unusually cold winter and frigid wind blew across the barren cliffs off the Black Sea. She began to tremble, more violently than she would have thought possible. Her legs and arms vibrated on the ground in what were almost convulsions. Natasha's eyes burned with tears. She did not –

"Coulson –"

"Try not to talk, Natasha."

_Keep talking. Don't leave. Let her know that he was there._ For a moment her weakness disgusted her but then, that too, was eclipsed by the terrible, throbbing fear that was squeezing her palpating heart with icy fingers, threatening to suffocate her.

"I don't want –"

"Natasha, hold on."

"Coulson – afraid –" The word mixed with the blood in her mouth until the taste was intermingled with that of rusted metal, bitter and hot on her tongue.

"Don't be afraid, Natasha. You're going to be alright."

The clear, blue sky above her was dimming to a dull gray. Strange shapes whirled in and out of focus in front of her eyes. For a moment the shadowy assassin with his black mask covering his nose and mouth, above which his eyes shown, deliberate and coolly calculating, seemed to swim above her face. She thought, perhaps, he had come to finish her off.

But then his face swam away and dissolved into gray cloud and was replaced by a man sitting against a wall with a heavy bag pulled over his face. The bag was drenched red with blood. Natasha ground her fingers into the cold dry earth, wedging dirt beneath her fingernails.

"Coulson –" It was hard to speak. Her voice scraped painfully up her esophagus.

The faces rippled in front of her face. A little girl with a bullet hole in her forehead. A man lying on his back on a bed. All of them ghosts come to haunt her one last time, come to whisper their final good-byes before Natasha joined them – where? Where would she go? What mysteries, hellish eternity, bliss, or rebirth came after death?

Finally the faces swirled and fixed themselves on another, Clint – smiling, laughing, sitting beside her, lips moving softly, soundlessly as he muttered words of comfort, taking her hand in his own, callouses on his fingers rough against her skin – his fingers turned to dust in her hands and face dissolved into the grayness of the sky, voice was whisked away on the wind and Natasha was left alone and cold.

So terribly alone.

"Coulson – tell – Clint…"

"You're going to be around to tell him yourself, Natasha," Coulson's voice said firmly, disappearing into distant static in her brain.

_Tell Clint. Tell Clint that I –_ Natasha struggled to draw breath after trembling breath until her chest grew too weak to rise and fall. She tried to remember his eyes, glistening like the dark sea that pounded against the cliffs below her – tried for a moment to forget that his warmth belonged to another woman –

And, before she could rally her thoughts into any conscious thought, darkness engulfed her.

* * *

The blank, blue sky was all she could see through the windshield. She felt weightless, as if she was floating or flying, soaring among the clouds. The world tipped dangerously and sky was replaced by rocky gray ground as the car hurtled toward the bottom of the short cliff. Natasha felt the world around her freeze, as if drawing breath, and had time to shut her eyes in preparation for the impact she knew was coming. Her arm flung out in an impulse to touch Dr. Javadi's chest, little protection it might have been. She could hear his yelling mix with the screaming of the wind in her ears.

She felt her stomach swoop with a feeling that was half terror and half elation and then the front of the car slammed into the ground. The windshield erupted. Her door was wrenched open from the force of the impact. The airbag ballooned out of the mess of shattering glass and slammed into her chest, knocking her breath from her lungs and out of her lips in a wheeze. The car tottered on a dizzying fencepost of falling forward or backward before finally pitching back onto its belly, landing on its four wheels, frame shuddering and grinding from the collision.

The back of Natasha's head slammed against the headrest and then everything went still. Piercing pain stabbed Natasha in the side like a hot knife. Her eyes flew open, vision momentarily blurred before the splintered windshield, deflated airbag, and dangling rearview mirror all came into sharp focus.

Dr. Javadi groaned beside her and Natasha turned. The doctor probably looked just about as good as Natasha did, herself. His tan skin was sprinkled with bloody scrapes. His glasses were askew, hanging from only one ear. His eyes were closed but his mouth was open, letting out frantic, gasping breaths.

Natasha forced herself through the fog that covered her brain. She lifted a hand, arm feeling curiously heavy, to unbuckle herself from the seat. Her fingers were shaking but she ignored it. She pushed it all to the side, shoved passed the pain gnawing at the side of her head, thrust away the disorientation and dizziness, replaced it all with a razor sharp focus and pounding certainty that whoever had shot out their tire in the first place would be back, and quickly.

"Doctor," she said, voice sounding sluggish. She blinked rapidly and shook her head, using the resulting pain to keep her alert. She twisted in her seat, already reaching for the doctor's seatbelt. "Doctor, we have to move. Now."

"What…?" Dr. Javadi murmured, "What happened?"

"Dr. Javadi, now!" Natasha yelled. She scrambled out of her seat, knee protesting her weight when she landed on her feet on the dusty ground. She bit back a hiss of pain and limped over to the other side of the car. Her breathing was harsh and shallow. Each breath tore against her ribs.

She flung open the doctor's door and grabbed his arm, dragging him physically from the car before he seemed to realize what she was doing and swung his legs over the seat to help her.

"What happened – Agent Romanoff?" Dr. Javadi winced as he stood, hand flying to his chest. Sunlight glinted off his bald head. His jacket, donned to guard against the cold coastal wind of January in Sevastopol was stained maroon near his left elbow.

"No time to explain. We have to move," Natasha ordered. They needed to get to shelter, quickly. Their would-be assassin was undoubtedly getting closer with every moment they delayed. He had to be some kind of sniper. Natasha had been unable to see his figure anywhere on the horizon which meant he was shooting from long range.

Natasha put a hand to her ear to find the small transmission button on her earpiece. "Coulson. Coulson, come in. Mission in jeopardy. Charge targeted. Request intervention. …Oh yeah, and the jeep is totaled. Come on, Dr. Javadi, move."

Natasha slipped her fingers around the doctor's wrist and tugged him forward, keeping herself in front of him, her body a shield against any other attacks. His knees buckled and he crashed to the ground, breathing heavily.

"I – I cannot, Agent Romanoff – my – chest – I –"

Suddenly, with realization that was incongruent to their present situation, Natasha recalled the long ferry ride over the Black Sea, and Dr. Javadi's happy confession that he had a wife and five children waiting for him in Britain. Natasha gritted her teeth.

"Dammit, Doctor! _Move_!"

The crackle of gravel beneath heavy boots made Natasha turn. Her hand flew to her belt where she kept her Glock 26. She whirled in a fluid motion to confront their attacker. All in an instant she saw him standing before her, bathed in the shadows of the overlooking cliff, sun glinting off a metal hand that he used to steady the barrel of his anti-materiel rifle balanced on his shoulder, callous almost inhuman eyes staring over a tight black mask over his nose and mouth. She saw it all even as she heard the crack of his rifle, saw the smoke puff from its mouth as the bullet sped invisibly toward Natasha's midriff.

The bullet sliced easily through Natasha's stomach and came out her back to embed itself firmly in the face of Dr. Javadi, still kneeling behind her. Natasha stumbled backward. For a moment she thought she was going to be able to stay on her feet. She lifted her hand, holding her gun – the assassin was already turning his back, completely unconcerned by Natasha –

Damned fool. She'd teach him to turn his back on her –

Her gun slipped from her suddenly loosened fingers and landed on the ground with a thump that raised dust around the handle. Natasha tipped backward. She landed across Dr. Javadi's chest, back of her head hitting the hard ground.

She could feel the assassin's footsteps vibrating through the frozen earth as he walked away.

* * *

His face was the first thing she saw when she woke, numerous tubes and medical equipment pinned to her chest and arms, head so heavy it felt as if her hair had been glued to the pillow.

"'Bout time you woke up."

Clint was staring at her with an intensity she had only ever seen reserved for the targets on the other end of his bow. It was somehow in parts both disarming and oddly endearing.

"Clint." His name scraped painfully up her throat, sounding raspy and weak. "What –" the room was filled with the steady beeping of medical monitors recording the rate of her heart, her oxygen levels, her blood pressure. "What happened?"

"You got shot," Clint answered, voice level and matter-of-fact, strangely grim. Natasha tried to put her finger on what is was that seemed out of place in his voice before deciding – meanderingly, languidly – that he actually sounded concerned.

Natasha swallowed. Her mouth was dry, lips chapped. "How bad?"

"Pretty bad, Tasha," said Clint. He spoke in short, terse sentences as if he didn't want to linger too long over the facts. "You'd already lost two liters of blood by the time they got to you. Perforated intestine. Ruptured spleen. Your left lung almost collapsed. You've been out for two days."

His words washed meaninglessly through her head, echoing in her skull, facts and figures that did not make any sense and refused to align themselves to actual occurrences – let alone anything that had actually happened to her. Bits and pieces were beginning to come back to her now, hazy, vague images and feelings – dry dust under her palm, a sharp pain in her head, a fierce panic thudding in her chest.

"Doctor – Javadi?" she managed to force the words up her raw throat.

"There wasn't anything they could do."

Natasha shut her eyes, head falling into the soft hospital pillow. She could smell the hospital now: powdery, stifling antiseptic all around her. She could hear the drip of IV fluid that slithered into the needle pinned in the crook of her elbow, heard the rattling of gurneys outside the door, the tapping of shoes on the floor, could hear Clint's slow, steady breathing beside her as he watched her.

The infirmary at the Red Room was an impersonal, dreary place, rows of hard beds and thin sheets and cruel lighting. Natasha could only remember going in once. Influenza. The only reason she had come out alive again was because half the other girls had come down with it, too. Most girls who went in never came out again, perhaps for the lack of medical care but Natasha was more inclined to believe the warden – with her starched white apron and neat cap – just killed them outright, smooth slip of a needle in the arm.

Oh, God, all those children.

It was impossible to think of children now without picturing Cooper Barton – a little more than a year old and tottering around on unsteady, pudgy legs, knee high with hair as dark as his mother's but eyes the same color and shape as Clint's.

"It wasn't your fault, Tasha."

The words mixed in her brain like noxious gas, fading in and out of focus, trembling, sluggish, pestilent.

It had been nice to be on a protective detail for once instead of being expected to kill someone. And then, of course, she'd gotten the very person she was supposed to protect murdered right out from under her.

"We were so close, Clint," she whispered, words tumbling from her lips painfully, pulling her teeth out with them. She could still taste blood in her mouth. "So close. We'd already made it to Crimea – got out of Iran without a scratch. So close – if we'd made it to Odessa – just a flight away from Britain –" Natasha couldn't seem to stop herself from talking. She wondered if she was feverish. "So close."

His hand was on hers, warm and rough and so terribly near. She knew he'd seen people die, too, had – too – been so close – close enough to reach out a hand, feel them slip away like some treasure sinking to the bottom of the ocean. For a moment she just lay there, eyes shut, breathing through her mouth, feeling Clint's hand on hers, the heat of his blood pulsing just below his skin, so close.

She remembered, again, that Dr. Javadi had been a husband, been a father, had loved and laughed and lived fully with a beating heart and a brain that worked too swiftly for his own good, came up with brilliant idea that had – ultimately – lead to his end. Natasha wondered if his wife had been told yet. She wondered what she'd said, what she'd felt when she had found out – if she had told her children yet that their father would never again come home.

Natasha tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine the tears, the choking sensation in her throat, tried to rehearse the words she would say, an unprepared eulogy for a man she had not known and could never belong to.

She didn't think she could stand it – if she ever came so close to losing Clint the way he had almost lost her. The way the doctor's wife had lost her husband.

Suddenly, vividly, an image of Laura, sitting destitute in an armchair in the Barton's living room swept into Natasha's mind.

Her eyes snapped open again. Clint was still looking at her.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked her, and it took a moment for the words to register in Natasha's mind, to pull herself back to the here and now of her pulsing, powder-white hospital room. "Who it was?"

Natasha throat was tight. She wondered if the drugs were making her hyper emotional.

"He came out of nowhere," she answered, words slipping out of her mouth readily like she'd rehearsed them beforehand. "I couldn't see him. All of a sudden he was just there. Shot out our tire. The jeep went over a cliff. I pulled out Javadi but – he was just there again. He'd come up on us like a –" _like a ghost_. Come out of the ground and disappeared into the dust and gray sky like some kind of supernatural specter, living among the shadows, untraceable, invisible unless he wanted to be seen.

"He was some kind of soldier," Natasha said instead, conscious enough by now to know it would be better not to speak of ghosts or uncanny spirits.

"How could you tell?"

"He could have killed me, but he didn't. He only had one target, and didn't allow anything to make him stray from that. That sort of dedication only comes from someone used to taking orders."

Clint nodded crisply, absorbing this thought. He pressed his lips together and gave her hand one last squeeze before standing from his chair, metal legs scraping on the floor. "I'll report back to Phil. He'll probably be in later to ask you more questions. He seemed pretty worried about you. Phil."

Natasha wondered if Clint thought she was delusional, speaking of strange soldiers who disappeared without a trace into the cold air. For a moment she, herself, felt a trickle of misgiving, wondering if the pain medication was making her misremember the facts.

"Clint, I know it sounds strange, but he was there. I know he was there."

Clint smiled at her, evidently guessing her thoughts. "Don't worry, Nat. You rest up first. Then we'll see what we can do about finding your winter soldier."

* * *

The title comes from Emily Dickinson's "If I Shouldn't be Alive"

_If I shouldn't be alive_   
_When the robins come,_   
_Give the one in red cravat_   
_A memorial crumb._   
_If I couldn't thank you,_   
_Being just asleep,_   
_You will know I'm trying_   
_With my granite lip!_


	9. Innocence

It was early summer and the lilacs near the barn were in bloom. Bumblebees hovered lazily over the clover speckled lawn. Natasha breathed deeply the scent of hot grass and the hazelnut creamer in her coffee, clutched steaming in her hand. It was…peaceful, the farm on this clear morning, the cloudless sky. Natasha felt peaceful, a state of mind she was not used to experiencing.

She sensed Clint behind her before she heard the creak of his feet on the porch. She could smell his own coffee and the aftershave lotion she'd realized he only wore when he was at home.

"Morning," he said, stepping up beside her and leaning against the railing of the porch. He'd shaved and showered. His hair was slightly damp. He cleaned up nicely. Natasha tried not to look at him but studied the yellow head of a dandelion peeking out of the grass. "Sleep well?"

"Mmm," Natasha hummed an affirmative and took a sip of coffee. "You?"

"Alright. Laura was wrestles."

"I don't blame her," said Natasha.

Clint laughed. "Can't hide much from you, can we, Nat? When did you notice?"

Natasha smiled, staring at the anthill under the dandelion, buzzy ants swarming over the mound of sand, carrying little crumbs and bits of green leaves in their mouths. "Yesterday at dinner she didn't have any wine. I'd have thought one little monster would be enough."

Barton chuckled again. "We don't get much time together; we like to make the most of it."

"He's getting big," Natasha said, speaking of Cooper, who at two and a half had developed his father's habit of poking his nose into anything he shouldn't have gotten his hands on, not to mention climbing anything more than two feet off the ground. "Won't be long until you've got another SHIELD agent on your hands."

Clint smiled softly, but in a way that told Natasha they were treading upon tender ground. "He's already been asking to see my bow."

"I'll teach him to shoot if you don't," Natasha warned with feigned seriousness.

"I think Laura would prefer if we waited a couple more years."

"They're better if you start 'em young," Natasha teased. "Don't tell me you were much older than Coop when you got your hands on a gun for the first time."

Clint was smiling again but the screen door opened behind them before he could answer. Laura peaked her head out briefly, "You'd better hurry. We'll be late for the service." Before ducking back inside the house, undoubtedly to rustle up Cooper from, by the sounds of his squeals and accompanied crashes, had met the morning with his characteristic amount of toddler energy.

Natasha was looking at Clint in surprise. He appeared to be skirting her gaze. "Service? As in church? You in a church, Barton?"

Clint's smile looked slightly abashed, "There isn't much for Laura to do around her. The town pretty much centers around church socials. It makes her feel connected."

Natasha almost laughed out loud. The idea of Clint Barton at any kind of church social, sipping tea with old ladies, bringing cherry pie to the potluck dinner, was nothing short of ludicrous. Natasha could simply not wrap her mind around it.

Natasha's continued silence and wide grin seemed to worry Clint for he added, "Laura likes me to go with her. Show me off to her friends. They all think I'm in the Marine core – stationed in the Middle East."

"Worried about the status of your soul, is she?" Natasha asked.

Clint's lips turned up slightly, digging into his cheek. "Wanna come?"

* * *

She went into town anyway, because the idea of staying in that large and empty house littered with children's toys, the smell of Clint's shaving lotion and Laura's perfume, somehow reminded her of spending a night in a graveyard. She rode in the backseat of the minivan and Cooper educated her about dinosaurs.

She wandered the streets for a bit. She popped in and out of stores, buying Laura a few trinkets to thank her for her hospitality, unable to resist buying a bag of candy for Cooper. The streets were quiet. More than half the population did, indeed, seem to congregate to the large, bleached white church at the end of the street, complete with a steeple and graveyard in back. Strains of hymns drifted lazily through the front doors, held ajar by a knobby piece of wood.

The thought of Clint, standing stiffly beside Laura with his son in his arm, facing the organ and a podium, listening to the preacher's soft, nasally voice thou shalt not kill half made Natasha feel like laughing and – strangely – half like crying.

Somehow she found herself in the yard behind the church. She ran her hands over the tops of tombstones, reading the names. She wondered if anyone was watching her from the church's tall, arched windows. It seemed to Natasha her every move was being scrutinized, carefully calculated and measured.

She had been killing since she was seven. She'd thought about dying many times, expecting it, really, as inevitable, about being killed sometime, somewhere on the job, never by her own hand, not really.

Again her mind flew back to the Crimean Peninsula, listening to the Black Sea pound against the rocks as her life ebbed away, trickling out of her with every ounce of blood. It was more like a dream now, fuzzy and indistinct, or maybe a childhood memory, half-forgotten and unformed. It was hard to conceive how close she had been to dying, not now after she had been snatched back from the brink of it, her heart taught again to pump blood, flesh knit back together.

It was a place and a time she did not like to revisit.

Just then the church doors swung open. Natasha walked back around to the front, shutting the wrought iron gate behind her just as Clint jogged down the front stairs – one of the first one's out. Laura hadn't come out yet. He caught sight of Natasha almost immediately and wandered over, extracting himself from the crowd of families and old women with curly white hair.

He was grinning when he reached her, "Anyone you know in there?" He nodded to the graveyard.

Natasha forced a smile, feeling oddly somber. The bright sky and green grass seemed to have lost its allure since the morning. "No one I recognized."

"Better be careful, town gossips might think your some kind of grave robber."

Natasha noticed that, indeed, several eyes seemed to be trained on her and Clint standing by the gate of the cemetery. She wondered what the town had to say about her, mysterious woman who was staying at the Barton's farm. Clint seemed to spend an awful lot of time with her, Laura doesn't seem to like her, strange man – Clint Barton – hardly ever home, poor Laura, new mother and all.

Laura had just come out of the church doors, dragging Cooper by the hand and exchanging friendly smiles with several of the congregation. She found Clint and Natasha and walked over. Her eyes darted quickly from the shopping bags dangling in the crook of Natasha's elbow to Clint's wedding band glinting in the sun on his finger. He only wore it at home. It was too much of a risk to wear it on the job, even on a chain around his neck.

"Ready to head home?" Clint said. "I'd like to get that new fence up around the north pasture before dinner."

They piled back into the van. Cooper was cranky, hungry, and overtired and wined the whole way back. Natasha, uncertain of how to sooth a grumpy toddler picked awkwardly at a child protection lock sticker stuck to the window. Laura also seemed out of sorts and rather than adopting her usual cheery hostess chatter sat glumly in the passenger seat and stared out the window.

They were almost back to the farm by the time she hinted at what was bothering her. "I wish you'd stay and _talk_ to them, Clint. They're just trying to be friendly."

"Frenzied sharks, the lot of them," Clint answered. Natasha could tell he was joking but Laura didn't seem to appreciate it. She swatted down the sunshade mirror even though the sun wasn't shining into her eyes and didn't say anything else.

When they pulled up the gravel driveway, wheels crunching and rattling, and stopped in front of the house Laura unbuckled herself and left the car before Clint had switched gears to park. Clint stared at his wife's retreating figure before his eyes met Natasha's through the rearview mirror. She shrugged.

Cooper was crying about needing to go to the bathroom so Clint hurried to unbuckle him from his booster seat and carried him into the house.

* * *

Natasha helped Clint on the fence after lunch. She didn't know where Laura was. Cooper toddled around in the grass, getting into the toolbox and being rescued from the hammer by his father. He was more of a nuisance than any type of help but Clint didn't seem to mind. Natasha watched as Clint scooped his son into his arms and twirled him in the air over the see of rippling grass, laughing more than she'd ever seen him before. There was something clear and innocent, like the bubbling of a brook, in the sound of Cooper's laughter and incomprehensible, high voice, squealing "Faster, Daddy, 'gain! 'Gain!" Natasha discovered, much to her surprise and slight annoyance, that she her lips were spread in a grin almost as large as Clint's.

When Laura called them into dinner Clint took Cooper's hand to walk him back to the house. Surprisingly, Cooper's hand latched onto Natasha's. She didn't feel right shaking off a two-year-old and she allowed herself to be pulled along through the grass. Cooper's hand was warm and soft in Natasha's, so small and trusting and she found herself thinking, with an ache in her chest, that in another time – another world, or dimension –

But no. No. It was not wise to dwell on futile dreams. Regret was not something the Black Widow indulged in.

* * *

Dinner was silent and tense, reminding Natasha forcefully of the operation in Sri Lanka waiting for a ticking time bomb placed in a crime lord's hotel room to go off. Laura was – apparently – feeling little better from that afternoon.

Natasha focused on her chicken and carrots while covertly studying Laura from across the table. She was just as pretty as ever, despite the patches of acne that had erupted on her forehead and chin from her pregnancy. She was barely showing yet but she made it obvious with the way she moved, how her hand almost continuously cradled her stomach, the soft glow that seemed to come off her face, the way she walked, the sound of her voice as if she was weighing her words carefully, speaking for two people instead of one.

Clint's phone exploded abruptly, almost perversely with the theme from _Mission Impossible_. Laura and Clint looked up at the same time. Her eyes narrowed, as if daring Clint to answer the call.

"I have to, Hun," Clint said, apologetically. "That's from work."

Clint stood from the table, leaving his napkin on the table. The only time Natasha saw Clint properly fold a napkin on his lap was when he was at home. He walked down the hall to the bathroom with his phone. Natasha heard his distracted "Hello?" before the door shut and stifled the rest of his conversation.

Natasha turned to see that Laura was staring at her. Something in the other woman's expression made Natasha feel curiously guilty, as if she'd somehow made Clint's phone ring and interrupt their dinner on purpose.

"It's – um – delicious," Natasha said, indicating her meal with a wave of her fork. Truthfully the chicken was tough and steamed carrots underdone but Natasha was expert at nothing if not deceit.

"Thank you," Laura said, slightly stiffly, but she was obviously making an effort of being civil. She pulled Cooper's plate over to her setting and cut his chicken for him.

"How have you – erm – been feeling?" Natasha asked, dabbing at her lips with her napkin although her mouth was perfectly clear.

For a moment Laura looked puzzled before her eyes narrowed slightly in comprehension. "Did Clint tell you?"

"I guessed," said Natasha, shrugging, being sure to look slightly abashed.

Laura nodded. She sawed a piece off her chicken and chewed it carefully before saying, "I've been alright. It seems to be…harder this time around. I don't know why. It's especially difficult with Clint gone so often."

"I can imagine," Natasha said. It was another lie. Natasha had nothing in common with this woman, Clint's wife, the mother to his children. Her world and Natasha's were so distant they might have well been on opposite ends of the universe.

"That was Phil," said Clint as he stepped back into the room and tucking his phone into the back pocket of his faded, grass-stained jeans. Laura's eyes snapped up and fixed themselves on her husband. "I've got another operation. Human trafficker in Sudan. You, too, Nat. Phil seemed to know we were together."

Natasha briefly wondered just what Coulson thought she and Clint were _doing_ together.

"Another operation?" said Laura. Her voice sounded strange. Oddly restrained, almost accusatory. Natasha bristled. It wasn't as if Clint had any say in it. After all, they had called him. "When?"

"We're supposed to report to DC by eighteen hundred for briefing. We should leave in the morning."

"In the morning?" Laura demanded. "Dammit, Clint, Fury said you could have two weeks!"

"Damn," Cooper echoed, stuffing carrots into his mouth and glancing from his mother to his father, looking very pleased with himself. "Dammit."

Both Laura and Clint ignored him. "I know, Laura –"

Before Clint could finish Laura pushed her chair back and stood, water glass rattling on the table. She turned her back and swept out of the dining room, footsteps pounding on the staircase as she fled to her room on the second story. Clint threw his napkin on the table and stood without a word, rushing after his wife.

"Laura – Laura, wait –"

Natasha cut her chicken into tiny pieces before laying aside both her knife and fork. She shut her eyes. When she opened them again Cooper was staring at her. He blinked.

Natasha made herself smile. "Hey, kiddo," she said, reaching over to absentmindedly wipe a bit of mushed carrot off Cooper's cheek with Clint's napkin.

Cooper seemed unconcerned with his parent's conduct and flashed Natasha a brief, wide smile full of orange carrot before happily mushing his chicken with his fists.

Natasha tried not to listen to the strains of raised voices coming through the ceiling as she cleared the table and rinsed the dishes in the sink.

"How much more of this am I supposed to take, Clint?"

"I thought you knew what you were signing up for, Laura!"

"And her! Why do you have to bring _her_ every time you come home?"

She didn't know what to do about Cooper so she awkwardly lifted him out of his chair and set him on the floor. She wasn't used to holding children. She could feel his ribcage under her hands. He felt so thin and frail, like any wrong move of hers might snap him in two. He seemed happy enough to be on the ground and went into the living room to play with his toys.

Natasha tried to figure out how to start the dishwasher but she found her domestic talents sorely lacking and just left it loaded and off.

"And you shouldn't have cursed in front of Coop –"

"I shouldn't? I _shouldn't_! He picks up half his words from you, dammit! From the way you fawn over him, sometimes I wonder if he's the only reason you still come home!"

"Laura, you know that's not true –"

Natasha wandered into the living room. It didn't seem like Cooper was paying any attention to the progressively louder argument upstairs but she flicked on the television as a distraction anyway, some cartoon about a fish stuck in a dentist office while his father tried to find him in the ocean. Natasha stared at the television, oddly transfixed, marveling that there were people in the world normal enough that a cartoon about a talking fish would not catch them off guard.

Cooper left his colorful building blocks on the rug and stepped over to Natasha. He put his hand on her knee, staring over his shoulder at the television, laughing at nothing in particular. Natasha smiled, admiring the flickering lights on Cooper's pudgy cheeks, the infectious quality to his gurgling laugh. She impulsively pulled him into her lap, feeling the heat and weight of his body on hers, so small and slim. The hair of his head tickled the skin of her neck.

A door slammed upstairs and Clint's heavy footsteps creaked on the stairs. He walked through the doorway, looking harried and distracted but stopped when he saw Natasha and Cooper on the couch. A look of surprise flickered momentarily across his face before his lips lifted into a smile. Natasha knew there was something ludicrous about her position, master assassin as she was snuggled on the couch with a child watching a cartoon, but couldn't find it within herself to be embarrassed and matched Clint's smile over Cooper's messy hair.

"Come on, buddy," Clint said, stretching out his hand, "time to bed down for the night."

Cooper wriggled in displeasure on Natasha's lap, wanting to see the "durdles" but Clint managed to persuade him with the promise of the "froggie book" whatever that was. Natasha was honestly just trying to wrap her mind around the fact that Clint had just said _froggie_ and been perfectly serious about the whole thing.

Cooper waved goodnight to Natasha over Clint's shoulder as his father carried him out of the room and Natasha had already waved back before she realized what she was doing. She shook her head. Kids, some kind of witchcraft, that.

Natasha realized how foolish she would feel if Clint came back downstairs and she was still watching the movie so she reached over to turn the television off with the remote laying on the coffee table. The table was stacked with magazines and the morning paper, on the top of the pile a copy of Time with a rakishly charming Tony Stark declaring "I Am Ironman". Stark was already on SHIELD's radar, whether for recruitment of annihilation Natasha did not yet know.

She pulled herself off of the couch and walked to the front door, pushing it open with a squeal of the hinges and stepping onto the front porch. The night was cool. There was a light, sweet smelling breeze that blew a strand of Natasha's hair across her face. She could still smell the scent of Cooper's shampoo in her nose.

She leaned against the banister, breathing deeply. It was silent and still. Pinprick stars glistened over the tops of the pine trees.

The screen door rattled as Clint came onto the porch. He braced himself on the banister, shoulder nearly touching hers. Crickets chirped in the grass. A lightning bug or two blinked in the trees across the driveway. It was still too early in the season for them.

"Sorry about dinner," Clint said after a moment. "She's just a little touchy right now. 'Cuz of the baby."

Natasha knew he was trying to explain, trying to apologize. She didn't want that from him. She didn't know how to tell him she didn't want that.

"It's fine," she said instead. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"No. Don't, Nat –"

Natasha cut him off before he could finish, "It isn't right for me to be here so often. You deserve time alone with your family. I shouldn't cut into that."

"Don't feel that way, Nat," Clint said. "Laura doesn't mind that you're here, really."

Natasha didn't answer. She worried a bit of chipped paint with her thumb nail.

"Why don't you just leave, Clint?" His job or his family? The unasked question lingered between them like vile smoke. "SHIELD?" she clarified finally, not understanding why it was so hard to make up her mind. "You've done so much for them already. You – your place is here, with your family, with your wife."

Clint didn't answer right away. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and, she could not be certain because of the shadows across his face, it seemed like he was smiling.

"Believe me," he said finally, "I've thought of it more than once. I don't know. Some day…when it feels right. But for now I… I don't know." He shrugged, voice disappearing into the night air, not saying anything at all, really, but somehow Natasha understood. All too well she understood.

The feel of her gun in her hand, the confident, pervert _rightness_ of seeing people who caused others harm drop with every bullet she fired. There couldn't be any words for that, no explanation of how Clint and she – bred to live in the muted shades of grey, between the line of right and wrong – were irresistibly drawn to that kind of solid feeling of vengeance, the addiction of the sureness in her body when adrenaline pounded through her limbs, pumping blood through her veins while she dealt blow for cruel blow in order to keep the hope that somewhere, on the outskirts of their life, children like Cooper might grow up safely unaware.

"I was five," Clint said softly into the warm breeze that riffled the grass and his short hair.

Natasha looked at him. He seemed to sense her confusion for he quickly continued, looking at his hands, folded on the chipped paint of the banister, "You asked me earlier how old I was when I first held a gun."

Natasha swallowed and looked away, staring at the dusty white echo of the driveway before her eyes landed, too, on Clint's fingers bent around the banister.

"Barney told me to hide my dad's shotgun so he couldn't get to it when he was drunk. I never told Dad where I hid it, no matter how long he hit my brother. I just stood there. Barney kept screaming, said he didn't know where it was. He never told Dad it was me who had it."

He had told her about his brother before, about childhood haunts and shelter from their drunken father, about running away to the circus after the accident, ending with a cryptic "He's dead now."

Natasha's own siblings were as distant and cold as names in a history book from an age long ago. Sometimes she found herself in the uncertain, contorting realm between waking and sleeping with their names in her head _Feodor, Katya_ and the hazy idea their faces had once been on her hit list. She didn't know what they looked like. There had been no pictures included in the documents she had found, just impersonal dates of birth and death written in a cruel, black-inked hand.

Natasha wondered if Clint told Laura these things, about his brother and father – if Clint wanted her to know at all. Laura was Clint's innocence, a part of his life he protected and left untouched by the monsters he and Natasha knew so personally. Natasha knew that was something she could never be for him.

She looked away, letting the dark trees and lawn blend into a black shadow of emptiness where she didn't have to look at anything at all. She lay her palm over the top of Clint's hand, feeling his warm blood pulse under her skin.

* * *

Natasha listened to Laura and Clint through the thin walls, muffled through the barrier of wallpaper, plaster, and fiberglass, as she got ready for bed that night.

"Laura…honey? Come on, I know you're not asleep. Laura? Laura, I'm sorry, sweetheart."

A muffled sniff, crinkling of sheets. Natasha wondered if Laura had been crying.

Natasha always stretched at night, a habit born from a time she could not remember. Toes pointed, nose touched to her knee, legs spread in a split, tip of her toe touched to the crown of her head.

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have…I didn't mean what I said. About just coming home for Coop."

Creaking of the mattress as Clint sat beside his wife.

Natasha remembered the blisters, toes bloodied from the point shoes, spine feeling as if it was about to splinter from the endless hours of disciplined posture.

"I know."

"It's just – I just get so frustrated sometimes, Clint. I – I miss you so much sometimes. Just little things you're not around to do in the house. I have to hire a boy from town to chop wood in the winter."

It was funny that Natasha would remember those details out of all the others.

"I'm sorry, Laura, but no one ever said this would be easy."

The soft rustle of blankets as Laura sat up in bed.

"For God's sake, Clint!" Laura didn't raise her voice, but the hitch in her throat was evident. Natasha could almost picture the tears spring to her brown eyes. "My parents think I'm dead. I can't have people in because of all the awkward questions they'll ask – where's your husband? What does he do for a living? Why do you visit town so infrequently?"

_Back arched, shoulders straight, chin up, arms curved and bend at the knees –_

"Laura, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you want me to do. You knew exactly what you were getting into. If you remember Fury didn't even bother to ask me what I felt about the plan –" Natasha could hear the note of annoyance in Clint's voice now. Part of her was secretly glad he was fighting back.

"I know! I – when I married you I knew that but – maybe I was young and in love and I guess I thought it would be romantic, living incognito for my brave secret agent husband. But there's been a whole lot more sitting at home waiting for you to come back for a couple of short weeks than I thought there'd be."

"Laura –"

"I see you three months out of twelve if I'm lucky. You know Natasha better than you know me."

"Natasha and I aren't –"

"I know! It's just…It's just the way it is, Clint." Her voice abruptly dropped, low and gravely. She sounded so tired, so resigned.

Natasha could hear Clint take a deep breath. Natasha could hear the echoing strains of Tchaikovsky. Still the opening bars of Swan Lake made her break out into a cold sweat.

"And now," Laura's voice tripped, "and now you've got to go _again_. And what about Coop? You're like a stranger to him. Every time you come home he has to get used to having you around all over again. He's growing up without a father –"

Natasha heard the snap of Clint's feet on the floor and he abruptly stood. "Dammit, Laura, don't say that," he said, voice low and fierce. "You don't know what it's like – coming home to find he's grown another two inches, walking, talking. Sometimes I don't even recognize him –"

"Oh, Clint –" Natasha could tell Laura was crying now, quietly, face probably screwed up to make herself stop. She heard Laura throw off her blankets and stand to approach Clint. "Oh, Clint, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Her voice was muffled. She'd evidently pressed her face into Clint's chest. Natasha imagined the warmth of Clint's arms as he wrapped his arms around his wife's trembling shoulders.

Natasha climbed into her own bed, slipping the blankets over her body, laying her head on her pillow and shutting her eyes.

"I know, Laura," he sighed. "I know."

"I'm just so sick of it, Clint," she whispered. "I'm just so sick of seeing you leave time and time again. Maybe I'm just so worried some day you won't come back at all."

"Hey," there was a smile in Clint's voice now. Natasha could imagine his rough, calloused hands cradling Laura's chin so he could look into her glistening eyes. "I took a vow, remember? You know I don't break my promises. For better or worse –"

"In sickness and health," Laura finished, voice raspy, choked, tears running down her red cheeks, "Till death do us part."

"I'm not going to die, Laura," Clint said, more fiercely than when he had been angry. "I promise, Laura. I won't ever leave you and the kids." His hand, lain on Laura's stomach. Natasha wondered if he could feel that baby move within his wife's flesh.

Almost unconsciously Natasha laid her own hand across her stomach in the darkness, flat and dry and empty. She could feel the slight bump of shiny, smooth flesh that was the scar from her bullet wound.

She could hear Laura crying now, fully, tears soaking into the front of Clint's chest. Natasha was lulled to sleep by Clint's voice, whispering I love you into Laura's hair.

* * *

Natasha was woken early the next morning by the steady thwack of an ax splitting logs outside her window. Clint had built a pile of chopped wood as large as his pickup truck by the time they left two hours later.

Natasha tried not look as Clint kissed Laura good-bye, silhouetted in the open front door.


	10. Budapest, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the strange posting schedule lately. I've once again started college and I'm super busy this fall with a heavy course load and a job (writing tutor – pumped!) and it's sort of thrown my online life out of whack. I had really wanted to have this entire story written, if not posted, before the end of summer, but I've come up few chapters short. Not to worry, though, I will eventually finish this story, maybe just not by updating quite as promptly as my readers have been used to. That said, I hope you enjoy this next installment.

_"Just like Budepest all over again."_

_"You and I remember Budepest very differently."_

* * *

Edvard Kazka put his wide, heavy hand on Natasha's bare thigh, under the slit of her evening gown, and squeezed it beneath the table, hidden from the eyes of the many drug lords, Mafia bosses and underbosses, racketeers and gangsters circling the conference table.

She tolerated him with a coquettish smile and a nearly imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes. Natasha was arm candy tonight, low-cut black evening gown, diamonds hanging from her ears, red waves at their most luscious, falling over her shoulders and back in a rivulets. Kazka had had his hands on her all night, entwined in her fingers, brushing against her hips, lying on the small of her back, giving the rest of the thugs no doubt that his was the most beautiful prize.

Several of the other crime lords had brought escorts, girls with blond updos and red lipstick, slinky dressed and stilettos – who were looking at Natasha glumly across the table.

Budapest, Hungary, _the_ desirable tourist destination of the year – with its vivid, sweeping gardens, spas, high-end shopping on _Vaci utca_ and WestEnd City Center, one of (if not _the_ ) largest malls in the world, and magnificent, old-world architecture – also had its shady side. No less elegant then the part of the city open to the public, it was also home to the international epicenter of crime group leaders.

Mafias belonging to Russia, Japan, Italy, Albania and more, all of them come to negotiate, forge business contacts, swap stories on the latest assassination attempts, and generally display to all the others just how much more powerful they were then them.

The Andrassy conference room, in the very bowels of the Gresham Palace – practically on the banks of the Danube – was an elegant affair, crystal chandeliers and polished wood paneling inlaid into the walls. Several exits at either end of the room, no windows. Doors guarded on both sides, interior, exterior, eighteen guards total, plus more mulling about in the lobby – making sure no one got in or out without a proper invitation or else with improper accessories hanging in holsters hidden by jackets, pant legs, or socks.

Natasha had been frisked herself – quite thoroughly – be guard Number Six, who had a mustache and dark gray eyes much too inclined to stray down Natasha's cleavage which, she had assured him before being dragged away by a put-out Kazka, hid no small derringer or pocket knife.

The guard's efforts were not to say, however, that everyone had come into the room unarmed. Rather, Natasha would be very surprised if not everyone in the room held at least two weapons somewhere on their bodies, small, retractable blades, pistols sewn into the lining of their tuxedos, sharpened lenses detachable from false spectacles. Natasha, herself, had twin blades hidden in the heels of her shoes, not to mention the hooks of her earrings could be used in a pinch. The possibilities were endless.

In fact, the conference room was possibly the most dangerous room in all the world – certainly housing all the most dangerous men – and Natasha was sitting right in the middle of it, currently toying with the little magnetic charm hidden in plain sight on her right middle finger that could trigger the bomb under the table and blow them all to pieces in a mere blink of an eye.

All she was waiting for was a word from Barton, who was currently outside in the dark, flitting through the shadows and acting as her own phantom bodyguard by clearing a safe exit path for her retreat.

"As soon as I get back," Clint's voice panted in Natasha's ear. He sounded physically exerted like perhaps he was climbing up the side of a building, "I'm going to ask Fury for a pay raise. We don't get paid – nearly – as much – as – we're worth –" Each word was punctuated by a gasp for breath.

Natasha stifled her impulse to retort that perhaps if Barton would spend less energy on talking and more on the job he'd find it less exhausting. He had been keeping up a seemingly endless stream of single-sided dialog since Natasha had been getting dressed that night, an annoying drone in the back of her head like the buzzing of a fly.

"Good, I've got a much better view from up here," Clint said. Natasha heard the faint twang of Clint's bow. "There we go – whoops – better take out his friend before he realizes something's wrong. Alright, Natasha, side door's clear. Phil – what do you say?" Clint directed his last to Coulson, who had been overseeing the operation not-on-the-premises and indulging Clint's monologue with the occasional long-suffering sigh or wry chuckle.

"No better time than the present," Coulson's voice came through clearly in Natasha's ear.

"That's a go, Nat," Clint added, "Meet you on the bridge in T minus seven minutes."

Natasha barely contained her smile and turned it into a sly look at Kazka, who responded with another squeeze of her thigh.

She unobtrusively brought her right hand up beneath the table until she touched the familiar cold corners of the two-by-four-inch rectangle that held enough explosive power to punch through a steel wall.

The magnetic stone inside her ring would trip the fuse and begin the countdown. She had five minutes to excuse herself to use the powder room, sashay past the guards with her heels clicking of the hardwood floor, and get as far as possible from the conference table before the bomb detonated. Poor Edvard, being closest to the explosive, he would be the one to experience the brunt of the force. At least Natasha didn't have to worry about being called in to make a positive identification on his corpse. That job would be left to his wife.

She leaned her head into Kazka's shoulder, hissing into his ear the way he liked, her hot breath fluttering the hairs on his neck, "I'll be right back, honey. Gotta go powder my nose."

Natasha stood and gracefully exited the room, flashing a brief smirk at guard Number Six, who ogled her.

Her heart was beginning to throb with the familiar flare of adrenaline, nearer to excitement than nervousness. She ran her hands over the smooth material of her black dress and bypassed the restrooms on her left, walking down the long corridor toward the glass doors that lead to the lobby, guarded by two more thugs in dinner jackets.

Natasha flashed each of them a dazzling smile, fishing in her small black clutch for a packet of cigarettes. _Going out for a smoke. Horribly stuffy in here, don't you think?_ But neither of the guards asked her where she was going, and held the door open for her as she swept into the lobby.

" _Édesem_?"

Natasha whirled around at the sound of the voice and heavy footsteps on the floor behind her.

"Edvard!" Chirpy, delighted he followed her. "Going out for a smoke," flutter her eyelashes, tug out a cigarette and nibble on the end, red lipstick smearing the white paper, "care to join me?"

"Nat? Nat, what's wrong?" Clint's voice, urgent in her ear.

"Why, what a lovely idea," Kazka's warm hand on the bare skin of her back, under her hair, taking a right in the lobby, toward the front doors, more guards, Clint hadn't cleared this way, don't panic, _improvise_. "I could so use a breath of fresh air, myself."

The lobby was airy, a domed glass ceiling arching above them. A bellboy hurried to open the front doors for them. A man in a dark suit turned as they came through the doors but ignored them after a curt word from Kazka in Hungarian.

The doors opened to a sweeping flight of stairs that lead down to the sidewalk and street below. Cars and taxis rumbled by on the pavement. Beyond the road was the dark green expanse of Szechenyi Square, speckled with lamplight and strolling couples, arm in arm. Kazka pulled Natasha over to the side of the steps, out of the way of the doors, and offered to light her cigarette for her.

"It's a beautiful night, Edvard," she said around her cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke. She never smoked when she wasn't on an op. She hated the taste of ash in her mouth, the roughness of her tongue and the grit on her teeth. "Why don't we take a walk across the Square?"

"The Square?" Clint's voice crackled in her ear, "What are you doing over there? Wait…hang on…recalculating." Clint's breathing turned sharp and ragged in her ear again, no doubt he was making his way across the roof so he could find her.

The Gresham Palace was, perhaps, even more of an impressive spectacle at night, lighted with hundreds of electric torches and spotlights, making it look as though the white stone of its walls glowed from within. It loomed above them like a castle forgotten in the times of King Arthur.

"I would love to, _Édesem_ , but you know I am expected back. I cannot be gone for long from the conference."

"Sorry folks, you're on your own here." Coulson said.

"Thanks, Phil, that's real helpful," said Clint dryly. ""Alright, you're in my sights, Nat. Thugs number one and two on either side of the doors. On the count of five I'll take 'em out. Make your move then. Cough if you acknowledge me."

Natasha pulled out her cigarette out of her lips and coughed as she breathed in the smoke.

"Okay then, one –"

Natasha flicked off the ashy tip off her cigarette, dropped it on the ground and snuffed it out with her shoe.

"Two –"

"Hold me up while I fix my shoe, be a darling, Edvard."

"Three –"

Kazka held her elbow as Natasha fiddled with the straps of her shoe. She moved her fingers down to the heel, delicately unscrewing the tip.

"Four –"

Natasha detached the blade from her heel. Nifty design, that. She'd have to get a pair for everyday use.

"Five –"

Natasha brought her arm up sharply. If Kazka ever suspected something was amiss he didn't show it, but only let out a gurgling gasp as Natasha's blade buried itself into his chest, right through the left-handed breast pocket. He toppled over backward at the same time as two muffled thumps sounded behind her in quick succession and the two guards at the doors fell over on the steps with arrows buried in the tops of their heads.

"Well done, Romanoff," said Clint in her earpiece. "I'll be right down. Meet you at the bridge."

Natasha briefly considered retrieving Clint's arrows for him – she knew how much he disliked leaving them behind – but she noticed a young woman in a red dress just getting out of a taxi at the base of the steps whose eyes were round circles looking at Natasha and Kazka splayed at her feet and Natasha decided she had better cut her losses and just make a run for it.

She left the heel of her shoe buried in Kazka's chest, kicked off her shoes, and darted down the stairs, padding across the pavement in her bare feet, skirt of her dress flapping around her legs. There was a shout behind her. Natasha didn't know if it was only in the discovery of the bodies or directed at her, but she didn't pause to consider her situation, sprinting between traffic across the road and onto the soft lawn of the Szechenyi Square.

She could smell the damp of the River Danube up ahead, hear the screech of traffic on all sides of the Square. Behind her she thought she heard the muffled thump of an explosion deep inside the Gresham Palace, followed by several piercing screams and shouts of alarm. Natasha was thankful for the disturbance, hoping her retreat would be lost in the ensuing chaos.

"Clint, two minutes and I'll be there. Status?"

"I'll be waiting with the car," Coulson said, "about time you two."

The extraction plan was simple, rendezvous at the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, cross over it holding hands – just another nondescript couple enjoying the sights of the city at night – and then get picked up by Coulson where he was waiting on the western bank in Buda.

"Clint – status?" Natasha said again, slowing her pace to a walk, passing couples sitting side by side on benches in the darkness, disturbed by the commotion coming from the hotel. She fought the urge to look over her shoulder and check for any signs of pursuit.

"You haven't kept your mouth shut all night, Agent Barton," said Coulson, "now is not a good time to stop."

"Clint?" Nothing. Damn.

"Natasha, stick to the plan." Sirens began to keen in the distance.

"Phil – I'm not just leaving him. The police will be here any minute."

"Keep walking, Natasha. That's an order. Fury doesn't need both his top agents lost on one mission."

"Shut up, Coulson."

"Natasha, I mean it. The council –"

Natasha had heard enough. She spun back around on her heel. "Tell the council they can go to hell."

Coulson sighed, but then his voice burbled through Natasha's earpiece, "With pleasure, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha sprinted back toward the hotel. She didn't have any other weapons with her. She felt exposed and helpless without the familiar weight of her Glocks on her hips. She wished she hadn't been foolish enough to dispose of her shoes. Oh well, too late for second thoughts now. A crowd had gathered around the three corpses left on the dais.

Unexpectedly the rattling of a machine gun split the air, echoing off the surrounding buildings. Several pedestrians screamed and ducked, arms thrown over their heads. Natasha kept running, not bothering to seek cover. She had been around urban fighting long enough to be able to gage the distance of the shots. They were coming from the roof – the same place Clint had been when he'd last made contact.

Natasha's legs pumped with a crucial speed, stomach rising and falling rapidly with each gasping breath. She darted around the side of the hotel, scanning the expanse of buckled white stone and windows, trying to look for a way up. Dammit, Clint, how did he do it? Dammit, what ever happened to good-old fire escapes?

The sirens grew closer, reverberating off the sides of buildings, growing so loud they were almost deafening. Suddenly a line of speeding police cars rounded the corner down the street and whirled past the sidewalk where Natasha's stood, turning the corner of the hotel and skidding to a stop in the front street.

Natasha raced up the sidewalk to the side door, where a bellboy was standing, staring dumbstruck at the passing police cars and hardly acknowledging Natasha as she pushed passed the doors and into the building. Smoke clogged the hallway. Fire alarms screamed in her ears. She had almost forgotten about the bomb. She darted down the hallway and ducked quickly into a flight of stairs. Frantic hotel guests were clattering down the stairs, woman crying, men using their shoulders to shove through the crowd. Machine guns still clattered from the floors above.

Natasha gritted her teeth in irritation and plunged into the crowd, ducking under arms and squeezing passed panicked bystanders, all jabbering in dozens of different languages. She pounded up the stairs, calves straining, breathing hard, until she reached the top flight and a door marked in German, Hungarian, Russian, Spanish, French, and English _Authorized Personnel Only: Not an Exit._

Natasha shouldered it open, jogged up the small flight of steps to another door, and then broke onto the gently sloping roof that overlooked the rest of the city, sparkling with electric lights in the darkness.

"Natasha! Duck!"

Natasha obeyed Clint's shout of warning instinctively, tucking herself into a tight ball and summersaulting across the roof just as the awning above the door exploded in a shower of splintered wood and plaster as it was assaulted by a rain of bullets.

Natasha tossed herself behind an upturned vent and collided with Clint's shoulder. He was lying on his stomach, propped up by his elbows and holding his bow at a ready.

"Hey," said Clint, calmly knocking an arrow. "Nice dress."

"Thanks," Natasha said. Rolling onto her own stomach and peaking over the top of the vent, just as another flurry of bullets rattled off the top of the vent with metallic echoes.

"Got the jump on me," Clint explained. Natasha noticed his right ear, the one facing her and that had held his communicator, was trailing a line of blood. "Bashed me on the side of the head pretty good but I taught him a thing or two." Natasha's eyes fell on a slumped body lying in a heap on the roof between them and the invisible machine gunner. "But he brought a friend."

Police strobe lights bounced off the roof from below. "I have a feeling in a minute it's going to be a whole lot more crowded up here," Natasha said.

"Tell that to him!" Barton shouted after another bombardment of deafening bullets.

"Cover me!"

Natasha shouted and leapt into action before Clint had time enough to yell, "Dammit, Nat!"

She heard the twang of his bow as she dived for the corpse lying in the middle of the roof. Bullets clanged off the roof, throwing fractured shingles into her eyes. She fumbled for the holster on the dead man's leg, snatching up the derringer into her hand. Clint was moving now. She could see him sprinting toward the hidden thug, arrows flying. She leapt to her feet and darted forward, confusing the thug with two targets so that his gunfire flew harmlessly into the roof.

She caught sight of a gleaming eye, half of a face stained red and blue in the flashing police lights, aimed her gun and fired.

The machine gun went silent. Clint skidded to a stop beside her, panting, sweat gleaming on his forehead.

"So I've got to do everything myself around here?" Natasha grinned.

"I covered you!" Clint shot back, bending over to retrieve his arrows.

"Am I to understand you're both still breathing?" Coulson's voice spoke into Natasha's earpiece.

"Safe and sound, Phil," she said.

"Do I need to tell you to get a move on or are you already on your way?"

Natasha sighed, "Moving now, Coulson." She and Clint wordlessly made their way back through the door and into the stairwell. Natasha could hear the sounds of heavy boots thudding on the stairs and voices shouting in Hungarian, undoubtedly the police drawn by their brief firefight.

Natasha pulled Clint through the door to the third floor, erupting into a hallway lined on either side by hotel sweets. Several doors were opened to rooms emptied by a hasty exodus, others held ajar by frightened patrons in pajamas peeking worriedly into the hall. A door slammed shut as Natasha and Clint swept by and Natasha remembered she was still carrying the gun she had procured from the dead man. She didn't have anywhere to stow it in her form-fitting gown.

They sprinted down to the end of the hallway where there was another flight of stairs. They pounded down the three flights before they broke through the door to the lobby. The lobby was surging with a mob of people, hotel personnel, patrons, and policemen. Smoke from the explosion still floated up near the ceiling. People were crying, wailing, and all talking at once in an indecipherable panic.

"Dammit!" Clint said, shaking his head, "I think he ruptured my eardrum. I can't hear a thing out of this ear."

"Act casual, Clint, come on." Natasha began to wade through the babbling throng of hysterical people before she latched onto Clint's hand as a second thought – adopting the indignant socialite wife driven to find answers with her bumbling husband in tow persona – shoving aside patrons without a second glance. With any luck no one would notice her gun or Clint's quiver and they'd be out of there in less than a minute.

Natasha scanned the faces as she pushed through, hoping she wouldn't recognize any of the thugs she had become acquainted with during her brief stay with Kazka.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath. Guard Number Six, the one who hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her, was standing near the wall. He had escaped the explosion with nothing more than a bloody gash on his cheek and a torn jacket sleeve. He hadn't noticed Natasha yet.

"Three o'clock, Clint."

"Thug with the bloody face? Know him?"

"Friend of Kazka's," Natasha hissed out the corner of her mouth, dragging Clint with more insistency through the crowd, approaching the doors at the end of the lobby, swarmed with police officers. "I don't think he'll be very pleased to see me."

She ducked through the crowd, Clint close behind her. Her bare feet padded on the rough artisan rug covering the floor. Natasha reached for the handle of the door –

"Excuse me, please?" said a young policeman, stepping up to Natasha and Clint, "But Madame and Sir must stay within hotel, please. No one allowed out of hotel now."

"Look here, kid," Clint said, with a convincingly irritated drawl, "I'm sick of being told what to do and where to be. I'm gonna get some answers if it kills me. Where's your superior?"

"I apologize, sir," the officer continued patiently, "but I cannot allow –"

Natasha's eyes continued to flicker through the crowd, landing on face to face, feeling Number Six's presence behind her like his body emanated heat. Her gaze fell on a girl speaking urgently to a uniformed policeman. It was the girl in the red dress from the cab, who had seen Natasha take care of Kazka. The girl's eyes latched onto Natasha's face. Her mouth fell open. She pointed at Natasha and Clint. The policeman spun around, grabbing for the gun in his belt.

"Clint, run!"

It was at that exact time that a woman behind Natasha chose to notice the gun held tightly in her hand and let loose an ear-piercing shriek.

Clint plowed his shoulder into the young policeman's chest and threw him backward over the stairs. In perfect synchronization she and Clint tore down the steps. There was a gunshot behind them. A light atop a police car shattered. Natasha turned only briefly to find, sure enough, the shot came from no officer but guard Number Six, scowling as he cocked his gun for another shot.

Natasha dived behind a squad car and rammed a policeman getting out of the door back into the front seat. She dashed across the street, leaping over the hood of a car. She could hear Barton's heavy footsteps beside her. The rough pavement stung the soles of her feet.

Guns were going off behind them but Natasha did not bother to look back, knowing the police had joined in by now. They'd reached the Square, grass already damp with evening dew. She zigzagged across the open Square, hoping it would decrease her chances of anyone getting their sights on her. Bullets flew crazily through the air. Police sirens pummeled her ears, squad cars roaring around the Square to cut off her and Clint's access to the bridge.

Natasha kicked her legs forward, arms pumping at her sides as she sprinted outright to the bridgehead, where one of its two stone lion guardians sat gaping at her with open jaws and lifeless eyes. Clint was right at her side. Cars skidded to a stop as they darted into the road in front of traffic. Police cars screeched to a halt at the base of the bridge, swung open their doors and stepped out with pistols and automatic rifles.

Natasha's heart was thudding in her throat. Clint dived behind a minivan, out of the way of the flying bullets. She followed his lead and took shelter behind a sedan. Clint's bow was loaded but he hadn't let fly any arrows. She knew he was hesitant about firing on law enforcement.

Several black, unmarked cars drove up behind the police cars. Men in black suits with gleaming machine guns stepped out. For a moment Natasha dwelled on the irony that both the mafia and the cops were linked in their general fixation of Clint and her as targets. Natasha saw the man behind the wheel in the minivan dive out of the way as his windshield erupted into a million pieces of glass from the smattering of bullets.

"Too many people, Clint!" Natasha yelled over the noise as she aimed her pistol over the hood of the sedan, looking for gangsters instead of the officers.

"Right," he said curtly from behind the van, "we'd better get off this bridge before someone gets hurt."

"Romanoff, dammit, get out of there!" Coulson's voice thundered in her ear and nearly ruptured her own eardrum. She had half-forgotten Coulson's continued surveillance.

"I'll cover you," Clint shouted and Natasha rolled away, dodging from car to car to keep out of sight of the guns. A man was climbing out of his truck. Natasha shoved him back inside before skirting behind the back wheels.

She paused and fired several shots blindly into the crowd, "Go, Clint!"

Clint leapt after her. The two of them made a mad dash for the pedestrian crossing of the bridge and the low fence that barred them from the water nearly fifty feet below. Natasha pole vaulted over the railing and hung on with her fingertips, legs dangling over the side of the bridge. Bullets passed so near her head she felt them ruffle her hair. Wind whipped her dress around her ankles.

Clint put both palms of the barrier, swung one leg over, but then slumped, look of shock crossing his face.

Natasha had no time to consider what might have happened. She hoisted herself back up the side of the bridge, arms screaming under her weight, latched onto the ledge with her toes, wrapped her arms under Clint's arms and fell backward, allowing her weight to pull them both over the top of the barrier and toward the water below, wind whistling in her ears as they plummeted.


	11. Budapest, Part 2

The river hit her hard, like pavement. It swept the air from her lungs. Her limbs were tangled with Clint's and his weight pulled her down rapidly in the frigid water. The water rushed in her ears, bubbles clouded her vision. All she was sure of was the feel of Clint's strong arms under her fingers and the awareness that on the surface the police and mafia were both waiting patiently with guns for her and Clint's emergence.

She wrapped her hands tighter around Clint's forearm and, unaware how severely he was injured, kicked her legs violently to propel them through the water, skirt of her dress getting tangled around her thighs, allowing the current to grab hold of her and sweep her through the water.

Her lungs screamed for air. She felt Clint move beneath her hands. Whether he meant to tear away from her grip to swim on his own or fight to the surface she was unsure. Perhaps he was just thrashing randomly, disoriented by the fall and his injury. Natasha refused to release him, cutting the water with her shoulder, weight of Clint's body dragging against her progress.

Black spots bubbled in the corners of her vision. Her chest was aching from lack of air. Her head felt heavy on her neck. Finally she could take no more and she kicked toward the surface, Clint's body heavy beside her. Just as she felt sure her lungs were going to implode and suck in a stream of cool water in their desperation for air her head broke the surface and mouth flew open, air sweeping into her lungs. She gasped for breath and beside her there was a splash as Clint's head, too, broke the surface. He was coughing and sputtering.

Natasha could still see the bright lights on the bridge. She scanned the shores for any sign of pursuit only briefly before she ducked back under the surface, pulling Clint back with her, unable to waste precious breath to tell him to keep going.

He seemed to be helping her along now, legs kicking behind them, arm she was not still holding onto pulling at the water by his side. She was unsure of how much of it was just adrenaline, kicking in to overcompensate for his injury. That brief moment on the bridge, when he had slumped against the railing, haunted her in the back of her mind. She tried to force it away, concentrating only on swimming, on holding her breath seconds longer to avoid breaking the surface and giving away their position.

Again and again she pulled them up for a breath of air and dived below the water, swimming steadily down the river tangled with reeds and cloudy mud. They passed below two more bridges, the Elizabeth hanging low above them and Liberty glowing greenish blue in the darkness.

Finally they emerged again from the water, air around them dark and impenetrable accept for the lights lining the shores on either side of them. Clint's head bobbed low in the water. She could feel his arm stiff under her fingers, feel the shuddering of his body next to hers.

"Tasha –" a wave of water cut him off, voice gargling as he coughed. She could feel his strength ebb beneath her fingers. His feet kicked futilely to keep his head above water. He was dragging her under.

"Hold on, Clint –" Natasha gasped, feeling the current pull her down the river, shore and boats moored to docks sweeping passed. She swam diagonally with the current, bringing her steadily nearer shore. Her arms were aching with the effort of dragging them both through the water. She twisted Clint with some difficulty until he floated on his back, head resting on her shoulder. He seemed to be losing consciousness. She gritted her teeth, calf catching in a wrenching cramp.

Finally her toes caught on the rocky bottom of the river. She could still hear the distant echoes of police sirens from the bridge behind her, a distant, flickering light in the darkness. She stumbled toward the shore, a gravely landing of what looked like a park, shadowy outlines of bushy trees stretching into the sky. Natasha tugged Clint onto the shore beside her, stumbling to her knees, gasping for breath, immediately shivering as her wet skin was revealed to the biting night air.

She blinked past the water clinging to her eyelashes, scanning the shore rapidly, eyes piercing the shadowy bases of the trees and the illuminated buildings behind them, cars grinding on the pavement beyond the small park. The nearby benches were empty, not a soul appeared to be in sight. Their presence, for now, went undetected.

"Clint." She was at his side, hand on his cold, wet shoulder. His eyes were shut, face pale in the darkness, but mouth opened. She felt the breath evenly enter and leave his body underneath her palm. "Clint, come on, wake up."

They were still on the East bank, in Pest, separated from Buda and Coulson by the gurgling, dark river. She put her hand to her ear, searching for her communicator but found nothing. It must have fallen out during their swim in the river. Natasha stifled a curse on her tongue.

"Clint – listen – you're going to have to stand up. I can't lift you on my own, Clint."  


Her eyes frantically scanned his body for any evident injuries. Immediately they zeroed in on his right side, above his ribs the fabric of his uniform was torn, but any darker stain of blood was undetectable in the poor lighting and wetness of his clothes.

Water dripped off Natasha's bangs and she impatiently shoved her hair out of her face.

"Clint, come on." She pushed her hand under his back, trying to hoist him onto his feet. Her heart was hammering inside her chest. She thought she could still hear distant sirens keening in the city. There was no telling how much time they had before the police caught up to them.

Clint groaned. His eyelids fluttered. "My – bow. I…lost my bow."

Natasha almost smiled in relief. She tugged Clint's heavy arm over her shoulder. "Never mind about that now. Come on. Walk."

"Never…mind?" he sounded disbelieving but his jest was cut off by a wet sounding cough. He fell against Natasha but she managed to keep on her feet.

"Come on, Clint." She gritted her teeth, pulling Clint up, at this point uncaring of how much she hurt him if only they kept moving.

Clint dragged his feet forward and together they clumsily made their way across the silent park. Natasha's mind was racing, her wet dress dragging against the grass. She didn't have any money so they couldn't catch a taxi. She didn't know where it would take them, anyway. Clint's shoes shuffled against the ground. He was heavy leaning on her shoulder. Her arm began to shake again from a combination of the exhausting swim and holding him up. She needed somewhere for him to rest, where she could better survey his wounds. Then she could worry about contacting Coulson.

The streets were largely silent, buildings sitting raggedly in the darkness. They passed occasional collections of men smoking cigarettes in alleys, eyes following Natasha and Clint, taking in her soaked dress and the way Clint was half-way collapsed on her shoulder. They probably thought he was drunk. Something warm was soaking into Natasha's dress from Clint's body, probably his blood.

They were clearly in a seedier district of the city. Joseph Town, perhaps, a bipolar section that had, at times, served as both Budapest's mansion district and its worst inner-city slum. Natasha knew at its center now sat the city's major hospitals but Natasha couldn't risk bringing Clint to the hospital, not with all the people now surely searching for them. Granted, Natasha would rather tangle with the police than the mob, because they would be more inclined to take them in for questioning rather than the shoot-on-sight rule of the mafia. But SHIELD had a strict nonintervention policy. If she and Clint were apprehended by the police they would be on their own.

Clint was getting heavier by the minute but Natasha forced them onward. His breathing was coming in short, ragged gasps. She thought uneasily of his injury. She hadn't found an exit wound during her hasty examination, which meant the bullet was still lodged somewhere in his side. Immediately she thought of his lung but she hurriedly squashed this thought. She couldn't panic. She had to keep going. Calm, collected, methodical, don't panic.

A drunken man from an alley catcalled as Natasha passed. She ignored him and peeled off the street, struggling down a side road with Clint. She cast a look over her shoulder. No one was in sight. The street was lined with shabby apartment buildings, graffiti-stained walls, chipped fire hydrants, and sidewalks crumbled and potholed.

"Come on, Clint. Almost there," she whispered into his hair, his head lolling against hers. Her fingers were hot and sticky with his blood, the flesh of her arms raised with gooseflesh from the cold water dripping down her back from her still wet hair.

She stumbled to a stop at random in front of the many apartment complexes. She looked down both ends of the street, silent save for the buzzing of a dying electric lamp by the street. She pressed her finger to the bell, leaving a bloody fingerprint behind.

While she waited for the door to open she rubbed the bell clean with a corner of her wet skirt.

"Almost there. Hang on," she whispered again, more to herself than to Clint.

She heard footsteps within the building before the door opened a crack, one wrinkled eye peeking through the space between the door and doorjamb.

" _Mit akarsz_?" a voice croaked, a woman's, eye peering suspiciously at Natasha and Clint, rapidly taking in their appearance.

" _Kérjük, szükségünk van egy szobában_ ," said Natasha, making her voice as pitiful as she could, blinking tears into her eyes.

The woman pulled the door open a bit more, revealing a creased, weathered face and gray hair like wire. " _Van pénzed_?"

Money. Did they have money.

" _Nincs pénzünk. Holnap mi lesz pénz_." No money. Tomorrow they would have money.

The old woman shook her head sharply, " _Nem. Megy el_." She began to shut the door.

Natasha slid her fingers around the knob to stop her. The woman's eyes went wide with fright but Natasha kept her voice gentle and pleading, " _Kérjük, ossza meg velünk belsejében. Van hová menni._ "

She saw the woman's eyes flicker over Natasha's earlobes. Natasha immediately remembered her earrings. She couldn't believe they were still hanging from her ears and she immediately slipped them out and pressed them into the woman's palm.

" _Valódi_ ," Natasha said, assuring her of their authenticity, " _valódi gyémánt_." The woman's small eyes went wide with wonder before she tossed a look down the hallway behind her to check if anyone had seen the exchange.

She tucked the earrings into her pocket. " _Gyere be. Gyorsan_ ," she rasped, stepping aside from the door and Natasha pulled Clint hastily over the threshold. The woman snapped shut the door behind them, first checking the street for any signs of followers. Clearly Natasha and Clint's predicament came through clearly enough to the woman and was making her paranoid.

The woman jerked her head in a this-way gesture and led Natasha and Clint up a flight of rickety stairs in the corner. Getting Clint up the flight was difficult. Natasha pressed against the wall for added support, clearly too slowly for the landlady for the woman impatiently doubled back but at least grabbed Clint's other arm and slung it over her own shoulder to help.

Finally they reached the second landing and the woman lead them down a corridor lined with doors. The hallway smelled like marijuana and urine. Natasha's back ached. Clint seemed almost wholly unconscious now. She could still hear his ragged, laborious breathing in her ear.

The woman unlocked one of the doors with a ring of jingling keys. Natasha pushed passed the door and into the room. It was dark and shabby. She could see the outline of a bed in the corner. The woman flicked on a light behind her. A naked bulb flickered to life in the ceiling. Natasha staggered across the room until her knees hit the bed and she gently tipped Clint as gently as possible on top of the mattress, noting the lack of sheets or blankets.

She straightened out and faced the woman, who was fidgeting in the open doorway, eyes stuck on Clint who now could be more clearly seen under the light. He was pale and trembling. Natasha saw the maroon stain of wet blood over his side, soaking through his black uniform.

" _Orvosság_?" Natasha asked. _Medicine_?

The woman shook her head, rapidly, apologized and immediately left, door cracking shut behind her.

Suddenly Natasha realized just how terribly alone she was. Clint groaned on the bed behind her. She immediately whipped back around and was kneeling at his side in a moment, knees on the cool, hard floor.

"Tasha…?" His eyes flickered open, pupils were large and bleary.

"Lie still, Clint, everything's fine," she said. His teeth were chattering. She put a hand to his forehead. He felt clammy. Shock. He was going into shock from loss of blood.

Natasha's heart was thumping in her stomach. She managed to work her hand under Clint's back and found the zipper of his uniform. Slowly, as gently as possible, she worked his shirt off, fabric sticking to his still wet skin. She found a knife in his belt. She tucked it under the bed where she could grab it easily.

His whole right side was stained with blood. Natasha looked around the room, looking for something she could use as a makeshift bandage to stem the bleeding. It was more hotel room than apartment, a single room with a closet sitting empty next to a second door that presumably led to the bathroom. There was a microwave on a table, no stove or refrigerator. A chair sat in the corner.

There weren't any curtains, just blinds. Natasha got to her feet and went to the doorway, pushing it open to find herself in the bathroom. Bathtub, no shower curtain, a sink, and a toilet. Natasha checked the cabinets under the sink and found a faded, shabby rag that might have once been a hand towel but now looked like it was used for the dusting.

Natasha soaked it under the tap – there didn't seem to be any hot water – and returned to Clint's side. Blood had begun to soak over the side of the bed, dripping on the floor with steady, flat drops. She pressed the cloth to the wound in his side. He stirred, head moved on the mattress – no pillow – but didn't open his eyes again.

The washcloth was stained red in minutes but Natasha had seen the wound by now, small bullet hole, almost perfectly circular between his second and third ribs.

The door to the hallway opened behind Natasha. In a flash she was standing, knife firm and cool in her palm.

The landlady dropped the collection of sheets and blankets she'd been carrying on the floor. Her mouth fell open. For a horrible moment Natasha was sure the woman was going to scream.

She hurriedly dropped the knife, raising her hands to shoulder height. " _Rendben. Nem fogom bántani._ "

The woman only shook her head again, frightened eyes running first to Natasha's knife on the floor to Clint on the bed before she shut the door. Natasha could hear her footsteps hurrying away down the hall.

Natasha collected the blankets from the floor and stripped one of the sheets into thin bandages using the knife. She returned to Clint's side and began to wrap his wound, pulling the strips of fabric under and around his back.

He groaned. She wondered if he was in much pain. She looked to his face and found his eyes open and on her face.

"You gonna try for it?" He asked, voice raspy.

"No," Natasha shook her head. "There's no way to tell how deep in it is. It might be in your lung." If she tried to extract the bullet it might cause the lung to collapse, something she wasn't prepared to risk.

Clint shut his eyes and nodded, apparently too weak to speak.

"Clint," she said, hearing firmness in her voice that she didn't feel, "you're going to be alright. I'm going to get you out of this."

He didn't answer her. She didn't like his color. His face was ashy gray, lips open as he gasped for breath through his mouth. He was still trembling, arms vibrating on the bare mattress. She pulled the blankets over him, knowing she had to keep him warm. She brushed his wet bangs away from his forehead.

She examined the bloody mass inside his left ear where the communicator had been mashed into his eardrum. She didn't want to try to extract any of the splintered pieces of metal still in his ear, afraid she might do more damage.

Natasha realized she, herself, was shaking. Her ruined dress clung, wet and cold, to her skin. She left Clint on the bed and went into the bathroom to clean up, splashing cold water from the sink on her face. She ripped the bottom part of her skirt off with the aid of her knife so she could better maneuver.

She needed new clothes. That was the first mission. She couldn't continue to wander the city in her ruined evening gown and no shoes. She needed to be as inconspicuous as possible if she was going to cross the river and search for Coulson. SHIELD had a standard backup extraction plan for agents. Five days at a predesignated meeting place. Coulson would be waiting there. All Natasha had to do was make contact. Then the two of them could worry about getting Clint out.

Natasha turned at the sound of ragged, wet coughs to see Clint being sick over the side of the bed. She realized he probably had a concussion from the knock on his head he had taken back on the roof of the hotel.

She was back by his side in a moment. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to hold him…to, as ridiculously maternal as it sounded, make his pain disappear. She crawled onto the other side of the bed, touching his trembling arm with her fingers. He looked over at her, eyes bleary, and managed a weak smile. "Sorry," he murmured before he vomited over the side of the bed again.

She pulled his hair away from his clammy forehead, "Don't be." She whispered. She stayed with him until it seemed as though he'd fallen into a fitful doze. Then she carefully slipped out of the bed and waded across the room to the doorway –

"Tasha?"

She almost smiled. She should have known that, even in this weakened state, Clint would have been aware of her movements.

"Don't worry, Clint, I'll just be a minute. I've got to go shopping," she whispered back to him. He turned his head away and shut his eyes, chest moving up and down with each heavy, pained breath. He didn't ask any more questions and Natasha slipped silently through the door and into the hallway.

****

When she returned she was wearing a pair of baggy cargo pants and a boys' t-shirt covered with a hoody with broken zipper. She was carrying a plastic bag in each hand, one filled with a change of clothes and extra blankets for Clint, the other with food and medical supplies, all discretely liberated from several sporadic locations to ensure Natasha did not leave a trail.

She slipped the door to their room open as quietly as possible but still Clint rocketed upward in bed, eyes slightly wild as they flew to the opening door, hand reaching automatically for the quiver and bow he had forgotten were no longer beside him.

"Easy, easy, Clint," Natasha leapt forward, dropping her bags in the doorway, putting a hand on Clint's shoulder. His face was pale, cheeks a blotchy red. She met his eyes, watery and bloodshot. He winced and groaned as she pushed him gently back onto the bed.

"Natasha…" he said. His breathing was laborious. She put a hand under his neck to find his pulse was thready. Blood pressure was probably low. He was still in shock. His blood flow was reduced, enough oxygen not reaching his vital organs, if his organs went then it was only a matter of –

Natasha shoved these thoughts away. She busied herself with the supplies she had brought it. Putting two plastic bottles of water on the table along with a bag of peanuts, a half-empty container of raisins.

She heard a siren muffled from behind the walls and went to the window, peering through the blinds and to the darkness outside the window. She didn't see any flashing lights.

Then she set to work on Clint, taking off the rest of his soiled uniform and pulling on a pair of drawstring sweatpants. She unwrapped her makeshift bandage to inspect the wound in his side. It had stopped bleeding. The sheet was plastered to his skin with crusty dried blood. She cleaned the injury with antiseptic wipes, watching Clint's fingers contract around the sheets and his shoulders tense, the sharp inhales of breath through his lips from the pain. She then wrapped the wound again with clean gauze she had taken from the medical cabinet of another apartment.

She hadn't been able to find any drugs that could help with shock, no antibiotics in case of infection, only some child's doses of fever reduction meds and mild painkillers. She made Clint take a couple of swallows of water which, for a moment, looked like he was going to vomit back up, but he managed to keep down.

The little clock in the microwave read 5:30 in the morning. Sunlight was beginning to dawn outside the window. Natasha realized she had been awake the whole night. She was aware keeping her own strength up was indispensable, so she downed one of the two bottles of water and a handful of nuts and raisins.

Satisfied with the deep, even breathing coming from Clint she climbed into the bed beside him and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep.

****

She was woken sometime later by Clint's fitful stirring in the bed beside her. Sunlight was coming through the blinds in shafts, spilling onto the ragged carpet in yellow stripes.

"Natasha?" She didn't know if Clint was conscious, whether or not he was just calling out in his sleep, or delirium.

"I'm right here, Clint."

"Natasha?"

"I'm here, Clint." She blinked the sleep from her eyes and put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were open, blood-shot and blurry. They fixed themselves, unfocused, on Natasha's face above him. "I'm right here."

"If I…Natasha…if I don't make it…."

Her throat was suddenly almost too tight to breathe through. She forced her voice up her esophagus. "Quit being melodramatic, Barton. You're not going to die." She blinked hard. Her eyes were hot.

"Natasha…please…" he coughed weakly. Natasha felt her chest constrict painfully. She felt the warmth of his shoulder beneath her fingers. "If I don't…please, take care of them for me. Please –"

He was so close. So close. She could smell the blood on him, the sweat and dried vomit. She put the back of her hand against his forehead. He had a fever. "You're not going to die, Clint. I promise you're not going to die."

"Promise…."

"I will, Clint. I promise I will."

"The – the kids and…Laura."

"Don't worry, Clint. I will."

"Laura? Laura…."

"Yes, Clint." She took his hand, bent low so her face was inches from his own, heat from his fever radiating off his skin. "I'm here. I'm right here."

"Laura?"

"I'm here, Clint," Natasha whispered, voice choking her as it scraped up her throat. She wondered if she had been transformed in his eyes, red hair turned brown, eyes softened, features morphed into those of his wife. "Shhh. I'm here."

"Laura…?" His hand untangled itself from her fingers, found her cheek. The beds of his fingers were warm and rough on her cool skin. He pulled her head closer to his face until she could see the gentle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the speckles of green in his irises.

She kissed him then, his lips chapped against her own. He tasted of acid and fever, hot and smoky, metallic like blood. She felt his heart thumping weakly beneath his skin, chest to chest with her. She thought only fleetingly if, should this be his last kiss, then at least he would remember it as belonging to Laura and Natasha didn't bother to feel guilty.

****

Natasha managed to open the door to Coulson's car before he noticed she was there and pulled his gun. She slid into the passenger seat. Coulson stuck his gun back into his belt, exhaling out a half-exasperated, half-relieved breath through his nose.

"You're going to have to file one hell of a late report on this one, Agent Romanoff," said Coulson.

"Aw, Phil, if I'm not mistaken it sounds like you were actually concerned," said Natasha, cracking a smile, surprised at how stiff her cheeks were and how nice it felt.

"Where's Clint?" said Coulson, any sign of jest lost from his voice, the familiar faint crease between his eyebrows the only sign of how deeply concerned he had been.

Natasha sighed and dug her fists into her eyes. "Crummy apartment in Joseph Town. Gunshot to left abdomen. Possibly punctured lung. Bullet's still in. He's breathing at least."

Coulson was looking at her. Natasha stared out of the windshield of the sedan, at the dirty alley Coulson was parked in, the soggy cardboard boxes and aluminum garbage bins overflowing with newspapers and foam takeout containers.

"Heard you had quite the scene with the police," Coulson said at last. "No face shots. A grainy phone video of you pulling Clint off the side of the bridge. Fugitives from justice in Hungary. Congratulations. That makes…eighteen countries now?"

"Seventeen," said Natasha, "Turkmenistan doesn't count seeing as being a fugitive from their justice is more like a compliment."

Coulson's colorless lips quirked upward in a movement so imperceptible it could hardly be considered a smile.

"Got an extraction plan?" said Coulson.

"I thought that was your job, Agent Coulson," said Natasha, staring out the windshield again, at the sun glinting off the lid of a garbage can, recalling that afternoon five years ago in Brazil, facing the tip of Clint's arrow in an alley very like this one.

"Just thought I'd ask, figured you'd like to have a part in it," said Coulson.

Natasha looked at him, eyes flickering to his straight, emotionless face and receding hairline. "I think I'll hand this one over to you, Phil."

She saw him cock an eyebrow at her. She was looking at the alley, not seeing anything at all. She felt Coulson's eyes on her, heavy and searching. She knew he was trying to read her silence, knew he wasn't getting much out of it, like trying to understand a language one couldn't speak.

He nodded tersely and opened his car door, stepping out onto the pavement and pulling his phone out of his pocket. She heard his voice speak raptly into the speaker "Agent Coulson –" before his voice was cut off when he shut the car door behind him.

Natasha breathed through her nose. She shut her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the lip of the sea, remembering the sandpaper feel of Clint's lips on hers.


	12. For Children

Natasha thought about a lot of things en route to Calcutta in the copilot's seat of the Quinjet. She was ordinarily an expert at keeping her work and personal lives completely separate, but now her mind was tilting dizzyingly from thought to thought, focusing on faces, snatches of conversation.

Banner. She thought about Dr. Bruce Banner. The last she had heard of him he had left a dent in Harlem large enough to view from space. She thought about Calcutta. What brought Banner there?

We think so. Coulson's voice rattled inside her skull. _He's alive? We think so._ And if SHIELD thought wrong – if Clint wasn't – She thought of Budapest. _Watch over them for me, Natasha. Please. Promise me._

She thought of Laura, waiting in blissful ignorance on the farm, of Cooper, almost five, and Lila, almost two. _Compromised. Barton's been compromised. Where is Barton now? We don't know._

Compromised. What did compromised entail? Captured, hurt, something worse? Coulson had been vague, almost reluctant to give her details. She wondered if he was withholding knowledge for incentive, so Natasha might get her job done and get it done quickly, no questions asked, no distractions.

Don't know. _We don't know._

"Landing in t-minus eight minutes, Agent Romanoff," said the pilot, a kid, clear-eyed and wet behind the ears. Mostly Natasha thought about how she used to sit in the copilot seat next to Clint.

"Thanks," she said, and twirled around in her seat, getting up and snatching the bundle of clothes Coulson had thought to chuck into the Quinjet, going into the back to change before her confrontation with Banner.

* * *

Loki looked so superior behind the walls of his containment cell that Natasha had to fight the urge to shatter the glass with her fist, fit a piece of splintered glass into her palm and gouge his eye out with it.

"I want to know what you've done to Agent Barton."

She kept her face flat and expressionless. _And your actress buddy, is she a spy too? Do they start that young? I did._ Natasha had been doing this since she was a child, dissolving so fully into the characters she played that she had lost her own identity, time and time again embraced a separate self that she might do it all over again.

_Dreykov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire. Barton told me everything._

"I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear."

Everything. Barton told him everything. _Protect them. Please promise you'll protect them_. Natasha realized with a heart-thudding start that there was nothing to protect. Laura, the kids, Loki didn't know…. She stared into Loki's cruel, depthless eyes and suddenly felt like laughing.

"And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull!"

Cry. Cry, dammit. But there were no tears and Natasha turned her back on him. She managed to fit a tremor into her voice, tasting it on her lips like bitter poison. "You're a monster!"

She heard his smug, choking laugh, felt his sneer burn on the back of his head. She enjoyed seeing the look of reckless self-assurance melt off his face when she turned around to face him again, god of lies, deceived by his own truth.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

As she walked briskly across the catwalks, up a ramp, down a flight of stairs back to the lab, speaking rapidly into her earpiece, she couldn't help but match Loki's voice to the rhythm of her clicking heels. _Is this love? Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_

* * *

"Clint, you're gonna be alright." She was back in Budapest. He was bleeding on the bed. Pale and weak, gasping for breath. _I promise. I promise you're going to be alright._

"You know that?" A raspy laugh and for a moment Natasha remembered Loki speaking of monsters behind transparent walls. "Is that what you know? I got…I got no window. No way to flush him out." She watched him strain his muscles, arms rippling with bridled power, power she had felt wrapped around her throat, a twist of a wrist – snap of a bone, seconds away from death.

She stood and walked to the pitcher of water, poured a glass because she needed to do something with her hands. She remembered the feel of Clint's skin under her fingers, the flushed heat of his body, the tension below his flesh that had been unrecognizable, alien, frightening.

_Have you ever had someone take your brain and play?_ She remembered crushing a ten-year-old girl's windpipe under her thumb, walking through a frozen forest with a bloodied knife, light of flames rippling across the face of children as she watched them burn. _Take you out and stuff something else in? You know what it's like to be unmade?_

She looked into his face, desperate and naked in the half-light of the holding cell. She recalled the look in his eyes, sweaty, heart-beating, arms stinging while fighting for her life on the catwalks. In his eyes a swift intent to kill, bleached light blue with some sort of cruel, ruthless sliver of magic wedged into his heart and mind. Nothing else. Emptied completely of Clint Barton, of who she knew him to be, his humor, gentleness, the way he smiled after they finished an op together. All of that – all of that gone and in its place this shell of a human being, a Clint she did not recognize.

Who she could have killed just as easily as he may have killed her.

It was that knowledge, that she might have killed him and felt nothing of remorse or regret, that had forced Natasha not to do so while he'd kneeled before her in defeat. He had been so erased from her that for a moment all she could see was Loki, all she could feel was the deep, thundering urge to kill Loki, whoever's face he might have worn.

She sat beside Clint on the bed, feeling the heat of his legs, the smooth fabric of his pants. She forgot the cup of water on the shelf by the pitcher. She busied herself with unfastening his restraints, feeling his eyes on the crown of her head. She could practically hear his thoughts – read them across his face like words written in black ink across a bleached white paper.

_Natasha, you promised. Tell me. Tell me that they're alright._

She was aware of his frustration that he couldn't speak because of the many monitors and recording devises across the room like it was her own, blossoming and throbbing in her chest, right below her ribs. She tried to somehow communicate without words that his family was alright. Oh God, at least she hoped so.

"Natasha, how many agents did –?"

"Don't. Don't do that to yourself, Clint." _Not your fault._ Oh, God, Clint not your fault. She didn't say it. She couldn't say it, words gathering in her mouth like bile, empty, damned meaningless words.

She wanted to touch him, reach out a hand and wrap it around his arm. Clint was staring at the corner of the opposite wall, at her chair she'd sat it while waiting for him to wake up, wondering who would be in the room with her, Clint or Loki. She wanted him to look at her.

She got up and walked across the room, stared out the window fit into the door, paced because she didn't know what to do, what to do with her hands, her mouth, her eyes, this pent-up, pounding energy eating her up from the inside.

"We gotta stop him." And inwardly she wondered why. Why. Why. Why. Why not just walk away, turn their backs while they still could, fade back into the shadows as Natasha had perfected only too well.

She knew Clint wanted to ask it, too.

"Well... if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, I'd sleep better, I s'pose."

She sat back beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, face close enough to reach out a hand and brush a whiskery cheek with her thumb. "Now you sound like you." It was almost there, his smile, hiding somewhere behind the strange tautness, almost tremble in his voice, the glint in his eye.

Finally he asked it. Asked her why. And Natasha didn't have an answer for him. _Dreykov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire. Barton told me everything. Everything. Barton told me everything._ Not everything. Barton had managed to hold back some of his secrets, rearranged the thoughts in his mind, put Natasha at the forefront, deceived his own deceiver in a way Natasha wasn't entirely sure Clint was even now aware of. Natasha wondered why he had chosen her. Chosen her. _Love. Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_

"Natasha…"

And for a minute Natasha was sure he was going to take her hand. She wondered what she would do if he did. Pull away or let him hold her. Love. Is this love? Love is for children, foolish, useless emotion. She looked at him, at the side of his face, memorizing every crevice and line, dip of rugged skin, refitting it into her brain, trying to erase the perverted version of this face gifted to her by Loki on the catwalks.

"I've been compromised. I got red in my ledger." She wondered how much of the red still belonged to Clint. "I'd like to wipe it out."

* * *

"If we avoid traffic we'll make Iowa in eighteen hours," said Natasha, looking at Clint as he maneuvered the car away from the park and the rest of their disbanding team. The glow of the stream of light coming from the tesseract had imprinted its echo on Natasha's eyes. She blinked to get rid of the blue and green glow staining her vision.

Clint hadn't taken his sunglasses off yet. She knew he had worn them so Loki couldn't see his eyes. Natasha wondered if Clint had met the god's eyes at all, irises free to roam hidden behind the dark shades.

His hands were stiff on the steering wheel. He didn't answer her, looking straight ahead at the road retreating under the tires of their SHIELD-issue car. She wondered if he was, in fact, watching the road. She had offered to drive. Clint had declined.

For three hours they drove in silence. The coast rolled by the windows. Natasha cracked her window open and she tasted the salt on the damp air. Natasha didn't bother to mention they were going South instead of West. The silence between them breathed like a living thing. Their stillness filled up the car with a tangible, solid presence. Loki sat in the backseat, leering at them both, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror.

Finally Clint asked her, voice crackling like a badly tuned radio, where she wanted him to drop her off. She told him somewhere she could catch a cab. He pulled up at the next gas station. Natasha stepped out of the car and shut the door behind her, not bothering to tell him goodbye.

* * *

Laura's eyes spread wide when she saw Natasha walking by herself down the farm's long drive. Natasha could see the other woman's mouth fall open in something between shock and despair and immediately Natasha felt something slip, heavy and sharp, into her stomach.

"Wait – Laura, wait – it isn't what you think."

"Clint – where is he. Oh my God, is he alright?"

"Yes, Laura. He's fine," Natasha said hastily, words tangling with themselves as they fought to get out of her lips. "I'm sorry. My God, I'm so sorry for scaring you. He's fine. Perfectly fine."

Laura shut her eyes. For a moment Natasha was afraid she was going to faint. She wilted against the doorjamb, hand over her chest, fingernails digging into her blouse. She let out a strangled, breathy laugh.

"I'm sorry," Laura sounded near tears. "It's just that – the news – New York – I didn't know what to think when I saw you alone. Where is he? Was he hurt? Is he with you?"

Natasha looked into the house, saw the top of Cooper's shaggy head peaking around the wall, staring at Natasha with wide eyes.

"He's fine, Laura," said Natasha, voice firm, laying a hand on the woman's arm. She tipped her head to indicate Cooper. Laura started and looked around. She forced a smile onto her lips, held out a hand to Cooper.

"Come say hello to Aunty Nat, Coop."

Cooper came down the hallway and took his mother's hand with his small one, laying his head against Laura's hip. "Where's Daddy?"

"He'll be here soon, Coop," said Natasha, lying through a convincingly bright smile. "He sent me on ahead."

Laura was looking at Natasha, eyes searching and still uneasy. Not many things made Natasha nervous. She rubbed her palms on her pants. She swallowed, hoping to wet her unusually dry throat. "Maybe I should come in."

* * *

"Where's Lila?" Natasha asked, clutching a mug of coffee in the kitchen while Laura stood at the counter, pouring herself one. She could hear the muffled strains of a cartoon in the living room, where Cooper was sitting on the floor playing with Legos.

"She's down for her nap," said Laura, pulling out a chair, joining Natasha at the table. Her eyes were piercing. Natasha found herself curiously reluctant to meet her gaze.

"So tell me, Nat," said Laura. "What's this all about? I haven't heard from Clint for weeks. That's normal when he's been on an op but New York happened two days ago. He should have contacted me by now."

Natasha swallowed. "I didn't lie to you when I told you Clint was alright. He is. He isn't hurt. He's just – it's been a rough few days lately, for all of us, but especially for Clint."

"Natasha, please," Laura's eyes were damp but her voice steady. "Please, don't try to sugarcoat it. He's my husband. I need to know what happened. I have to know if I can help him."

Natasha told her. She told her about Loki. She told her about the Helicarrier, about Coulson. She told her about the silent drive down the coast, away from Iowa, about his silence ever since, about how Natasha had hoped she'd find Clint here, that's why she'd come. Laura put a hand up to her forehead. Her fingers were trembling. She wasn't crying. Natasha wondered if this was just a façade put on for Natasha's benefit but, even so, she couldn't help but admire the woman's strength.

"He just needs time, Laura. He's not avoiding you because he – he just wants to protect you, to guard you from what happened."

"Oh God, Natasha, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to tell him it's alright – how do I get him to come back _home_?"

Natasha swallowed passed the bitter taste in her mouth. She laid her hot palm on top of Laura's hand, lying limp on the table. "For now just trust him, Laura. He'll come home when's he's ready. I'm sure of it. He won't ever let himself lose you or the kids."

Laura chewed on her lower lip but raised her eyes to meet Natasha's. She almost smiled, squeezing Natasha's hand with gentle pressure.

* * *

Natasha stayed the night, her first time at the farm without Clint there. She looked for any awkwardness in Laura's conversation at the dinner table but found none. She helped Laura clean the dishes after they were done eating. She sat on the floor of the living room and let Cooper show her his Lego house and Lila tangle her pudgy fingers in her red hair.

After the children were in bed Laura excused herself, going up to her and Clint's room. Natasha could hear her muffled tears through dividing wall between their rooms, listening to her cry as she had once listened to her and Clint argue. For a moment she contemplated going over to try to comfort the other woman but she didn't have any right words, and listened mutely as Laura finally cried herself to sleep, curled into a bed much too large for one person.

Natasha hadn't realized how much she still ached from the battle of New York and she folded gratefully into the soft pillows and warm blankets of the guest room bed, falling into a deep slumber she had not known for many weeks almost as soon as she shut her eyes.

When Natasha woke up in the morning it was to find herself face to face with two enormous brown eyes set into pudgy, round cheeks. Natasha grinned. Apparently Lila had inherited her father's talent of moving silently through rooms.

"Good morning," said Natasha, reaching out a hand to brush a strand of Lila's dirty blond hair, like Clint's, off her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. It was then that she realized Lila had stuffed an old, patched teddy bear into Natasha's arms. Apparently she had unconsciously curled her arm around the bear in her sleep, hugging it to her chest.

Lila blinked at Natasha. "Mo'ning, Anny Nat," she lisped.

Natasha felt her grin stretch larger. She untangled the stuff animal from her arm and offered it back to Lila. "I think he'd better stick with you."

Lila snatched back the bear with chubby fingers and clasped him to her chest, grinning over his fuzzy ear.

"What do you say we go rustle up something to eat?" said Natasha, climbing out of bed and taking Lila's small hand in her own, leading her out of the guest room. She noticed Laura's door was still shut, not a sound from within, but something told Natasha that Laura hadn't spent much of the night sleeping.

* * *

Clint came home on Natasha third day at the farm. He didn't seem surprised to see Natasha there. His smiles when he hugged his children and kissed Laura on the cheek were almost too large to be wholly convincing. Natasha didn't ask him where he had been. He didn't offer any explanations. There were dark circles under his eyes. His face was pale and gaunt. Natasha wondered how long it had been since he'd had a proper night sleep.

Since Natasha's first night at the farm she, herself, had not slept soundly another night, her dreams penetrated by twisting nightmares, shuddering roars, faces grossly distorted by alien guns, Loki's voice, hissing through her ears. _Love. Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_

His laugh was too cheerful, his smile too ready, his movements around the house, putting dishes on the table, twirling Lila in the air over the grass, hoisting Cooper on his shoulders were all too energetic, too precise, like he was acting a part in an op. She caught him staring sometimes, eyes empty and dead looking, watching Lila's hands as she played with her food, watching Cooper's mouth as he spoke words his father didn't hear, watching Laura as she moved around the kitchen, stirring pots, slicing bread, pouring drinks.

Natasha noticed he wasn't looking at her, wasn't speaking to her unless she was the first to incite the conversation. It was as though she had dissolved into the woodwork, invisible to his eyes, a phantom dodging his footsteps. She wondered if it would be better if she just left. There was an uncomfortable tension in the house, the feeling of something waiting to happen, like a stiff finger squeezing a trigger, waiting for the word to shoot.

The detonation happened Clint's second night back, near two o'clock. Natasha had just managed to fall into an uneasy doze when she was sharply shoved back into consciousness by a yelp from Clint and Laura's room next door. Natasha rocketed up in bed. A crash. A shriek. Heavy, gasping breathing and then, piercing and chilling the keening cry of a child.

_Lila_ – as soon as the thought clicked into place Natasha was out of bed. Her door slammed against the wall as she flung it open, raced out into the hallway only to barrel headlong into Clint's hulking, sweaty figure, rushing the opposite way. Her muscles tensed, she raised her arms, a second later realized she was preparing to fight him – perhaps expecting him once again to be Loki instead of Clint – but he shunted by her and raced the rest of the way down the hallway. She could hear his footsteps heavy on the stairs, the front door open and shut with a creak and a sharp crack.

Lila was still crying. Natasha could hear Laura's frantic, nearly hysterical voice as she tried to comfort her daughter. Light spilled out of Clint and Laura's room into the hallway.

Natasha stopped short in the open doorway. Laura was in a nightgown, kneeling on the floor, Lila sobbing uncontrollably against her breast. Laura's face was buried in her daughter's blond hair.

Natasha heard Cooper's bedroom door swing open. She could feel his eyes, large and scared, on the back of her head.

"What happened?"

It took Laura a moment to answer. She gulped for air. She whispered, voice barely audible over Lila's hysterical crying. "Nothing happened."

"Did he –"

"No! No, Nat. Nothing happened!" Laura's voice was louder. Eyes brimming with tears but she appeared to have gotten more of a hold on herself. She shifted her position, sitting on the floor, back against the bed, pulled Lila into her lap. "He just – he must have been having a nightmare. When he woke up Lila was by his bed. He must have – must have – he didn't hit her!" Even though Natasha had never suggested he had. "He must have scared her, that's all. But she's okay. Oh God, she's okay."

Natasha had not realized quite how powerfully her heart had been thudding in her stomach. She told herself to calm down. She felt her fingers trembling. _Love. Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_

Yes, love was for children. It was for these children. Natasha realized it in an instant – she would die for any one of Clint's children. Just as Laura had become Clint's innocence, his children had become Natasha's. She would protect them with everything she had within her, defend the world if only that they might live to see better days when they didn't have to fear their father's death at the hands of a petty god.

"Natasha –" Laura gulped. For a moment she wrestled with her voice, trying to keep herself under control, rocking Lila back and forth in her arms. "Please. Just – please. Please help him. Please, Nat, bring him back."

For a moment Natasha couldn't breathe. Natasha was momentarily overwhelmed by the sacrifice Laura's words represented – that she should trust her husband's safety to any woman but herself, that she had entrusted him to _her_.

Natasha tore her eyes away from Laura, wild-eyed and mussed hair, arms around her daughter's trembling body. She walked down the hall toward the stairs. She heard a strange muffled squeaking sound from inside Cooper's room and she realized he was crying.

She didn't know what made her do it. Natasha didn't know anything about children, the right words to say, the things to do, how to act.

"Hey, bud."

Cooper was on his bed, huddled in a ball with his blanket over his head. Natasha could see him shaking. She didn't bother to turn the light on. Maybe it would be better if he couldn't see her face, couldn't read the lie in her eyes.

"Hey, Coop? Coop it's Aunty Nat."

"W-where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's okay, Coop. He's just a little – he's a little…scared right now, Coop," Natasha sat on the end of Cooper's bed, "just like you. Your Daddy he had a nightmare just like you've had nightmares sometimes, too."

"Why was – why was everybody crying?" Cooper's head peaked out from under his blanket. His eyes glowed with moisture in the darkness.

"It just – Daddy startled your sister, that's all. It startled your mom a little bit, too. But it's okay. Everybody's okay. Your Daddy's okay."

"But where's Daddy now?"

"He's –" Natasha swallowed, put her hand on Cooper's shoulder. "I don't know, Coop. But I'm going to go out and get him, okay?"

"And you're – you're gonna make everything alright again?"

"Yeah," Natasha felt her throat burning. "Yeah, Coop. I'm gonna make everything alright."

* * *

Natasha found Clint in the north field. Nothing was growing there, just waves of endless, knee-high grass that melted into the wall of pine trees that surrounded the farm. He was standing in the middle of the field, staring up at the sky. It was a cool, clear night. Natasha could see the Little Dipper hanging in the black sky, North Star glistening above the tips of the trees.

Natasha hugged her arms to her chest. It was chilly. She hadn't grabbed her robe. She was wearing a faded old t-shirt and athletic shorts, gooseflesh raised on her legs. The breeze riffled her hair. Clint didn't turn when he heard her steps behind him.

"Hey."

"They alright back there?"

"Yeah," said Natasha, breathing slowly through her nose, stopping a few paces behind Clint. "Cooper asked me to bring you back in."

She watched Clint's shoulders move as he breathed. He didn't say anything. His hands were balled into fists at his side, muscles in his back tense.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine." His voice was clipped, almost irritated.

"What happened, Clint?"

"Dammit, Natasha, I said I was fine."

Natasha smelled the coolness of the spring air, the gentle blooming flowers, the wet grass and rich earth. She watched Clint, memorized the wrinkles in his shirt, the way his hair stirred in the breeze. She watched as he bent at the knees, landed half-submerged in the long grass, put his elbows on his thighs, his face in his hands.

Natasha's stomach roiled. She heard his breath, sharp and croaking. For a moment she was afraid Clint was crying. But when he spoke his voice was perfectly calm, if not soft, barely audible. "I could have hurt her."

"You didn't, Clint," Natasha took a step forward, stopped, hand half-way extended to touch his shoulder. "You didn't. Lila's okay."

"How do I know someday I won't?"

"You won't," said Natasha, strange buzzing in her ears, making it hard to think. "That was Loki, Clint. That wasn't you. I know you."

"How do I know he's not still up there?"

"He's not –"

"But how do I _know_?" He pulled his head out of his hands, looked up at the sky again. For a moment Natasha wished he'd turn around so that she might meet his eyes. "I can't know, Tasha. I can't know the connection is really broken, that he's not just biding his time – waiting for the right moment to use me to hurt you – or Laura, or one of the kids –"

Natasha's throat was tight. She didn't have any answers for him. She wished he wouldn't call her Tasha.

"Clint, you fought him –" He was shaking his head, slowly, steadily. "Clint – you were able to hide part of yourself from him. You didn't give him everything. You didn't kill me in the Hellicarrier. You were stronger than him –"

"Stronger than him," Clint echoed her, voice low. "Stronger than him? If I was so damned strong how come all those people died? How come I wasn't able to stop him from killing them – stop myself from pulling the damned trigger?"

"You were able to stop him from knowing about Laura –"

"But that only makes it worse!" He slammed his fist on the ground. "That somehow I've got it into my head that it's okay if Loki kills you or Phil as long as he doesn't hurt my family. I can't do that! I can't compartmentalize that. It isn't my right to choose that. No matter how much I love them."

Natasha's fingers crawled up his shoulder almost unconsciously. She felt his warm flesh beneath his shirt, his heartbeat through his back. "Clint, you can't blame yourself for something you couldn't control. You have to realize it was Loki – everything was Loki." She felt the hollowness of her words as they dropped off her tongue, saw them slide of Clint's arched back like beads of water. "Clint…."

She waited there in the darkness, listening to the crickets in the grass, the breeze whispering by her ears. Clint sat up on his heels, stared into the dark web of the pine trees.

"The Red Room was right," she said, seeing her words dissipate into the night air. Suddenly Natasha knew, it was his same capacity to love that enabled him to kill. "Love does compromise you. They just had it wrong that that was somehow a bad thing. You can't blame yourself for being human, Clint."

Clint didn't say anything. He took a deep breath. Natasha felt his shoulders rise and fall beneath her palm. She felt his muscles tense as he pushed himself back to his feet. She kept her hand on his back as he turned.

They walked together through the field, back toward the house, lighted in the darkness by the porch light and lamps turned on in the second story windows. Natasha felt the closeness of his body next to her in the darkness. _Love. Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_ And for the first time Natasha let herself think, _maybe it was._

* * *

When she left at the end of the week Laura saw her off with a hug, bony arms pressing into Natasha's ribs. It was the first time she could remember ever even touching Clint's wife and it took her a moment to remember she was supposed to hug her back.


	13. Recalibration

Natasha tapped her knuckles against the glass window in the door before pushing it open, instead of sneaking in unnoticed as she was tempted to do.

Wilson lifted his head out of his book. "Oh, hey –"

"You don't have to get up," said Natasha, raising a hand as Wilson began to rise out of his chair by the side of Steve's bed.

Natasha could feel the eyes of the security guard, holding a gun in the hallway, follow her into the room. She wasn't entirely sure she was supposed to be here, but the guards hadn't tried to stop her from coming in. They evidently recognized her from the news. It made her uncomfortable. Natasha Romanoff was not accustomed to being recognized.

"How is he?" She tipped her chin to Steve, propped up in the hospital bed, chest rising and falling evenly beneath thin hospital covers, face swollen and scabbed, but otherwise intact. It had been three days since she'd last seen him. She had grown used to his company and was slightly taken aback at how much she'd missed him – how concerned she had been.

"Fine – I mean, alright," said Wilson, moving his body in what was half-way between a nod and shrug. He seemed uncomfortable with her in the room. Natasha wondered if he had read her file. Who was she kidding – everyone and their mother's second cousin had read her file. "He was awake about an hour ago. Pain meds are making him drowsy. But he's okay. Doctor says he'll be out of here before the week is up."

Natasha nodded slowly, "That's good."

"You want me to leave, I can…."

"No," said Natasha quickly. "No, it's fine. Just wanted to stop in. See if he was conscious yet. I've got…stuff to do. I'll probably be too busy to come by again."

"If you wanted to – I don't know – leave a message or something I'd be happy –"

"No," said Natasha again. "That's okay. Just tell him I dropped by." Natasha turned to walk back out of the door.

She'd already put her hand on the doorknob when she heard Steve's voice behind her. "Leaving without saying good-bye?"

Natasha spun on her heel. "Hey," she said, glad for the dim light of the hospital room and all the drugs Steve was on so he wouldn't be able to look too closely behind the smile that slipped onto her face.

"Hey," Steve murmured.

"Didn't want to wake you. You need your beauty sleep."

"That's alright," Steve smiled weakly. His voice was tired and croaky but his eyes seemed perfectly alert, if not a little overly bright in the stark hospital lighting.

"I think I'm gonna…grab a soda," said Wilson, and stood, weaving around Natasha to get to the door. After the door swung shut behind him Natasha took his vacated seat, crossing her legs.

"You're gonna have to talk to him. I'm pretty sure he thinks there's more going on between us than there really is."

Steve smiled again. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Is this Captain America or the pain meds talking?" said Natasha, grinning, toying with the charm on her necklace. A nervous habit she had realized she'd fallen into – not altogether unintentionally.

Steve smiled and shut his eyes, allowing his head to fall back against his pillow.

"If I'm disturbing you –"

"No," said Steve. "It's alright. Stay awhile."

"Wilson said you're healing up alright," said Natasha, eyes sweeping across his face, zeroing in on every scratch and bruise, one at a time.

"Yeah," said Steve, as though his voice was a physical weight. "Doc says I'll be cleared inside of a week." Natasha nodded as Steve continued, almost babbling. "Something about increased metabolic rate, makes me heal faster than normal people. Another as yet undiscovered advantages of the serum."

"You were lucky. Fall like that – almost unheard of to survive."

"Luck, huh? Is that what you call it?"

"You sound bitter," said Natasha, half-way smiling, and immediately wondered why she did. She wasn't entirely certain this was a can of worms that needed opening right this minute. Besides, she didn't have any words of comfort for Steve. As Fury had told her, there could be some advantages to being dead.

Steve opened his eyes again, breathed heavily through his nose, stiff hospital sheets crinkling as they rose and fell with the motion of his chest. "I'm tired, Natasha." He stared straight ahead, at the opposite wall where there was a blinded observation window. Natasha glanced at the shadow of the security guard filtering through the blinds.

"Tired of everything," Steve continued, lips barely moving. "Tired of the lies and the deception. At least back then we knew who we were fighting. Our enemy didn't wear the same face as our best friend. Back then everything was so much simpler."

Natasha looked at the tube going down the neck of his hospital gown, the IV needle bandaged to the crook of his elbow. She looked at him and knew he was only now learning the lesson Natasha had been painfully acquainted with all her life. There had never been any one to trust. Somehow she couldn't even bring herself to be surprised about SHIELD's betrayal, not really, at least not after the initial sting had worn off – but that was only because she had gotten lazy.

Natasha had learned when she was four-years-old never to trust anyone. Maybe that was why Fury had chosen her to trust with his suspicions of a possible infiltration – because he recognized that quality in her, that wariness she held for everyone else. The only person she truly trusted was Fury, purely because he was smart enough not to trust anyone at all, himself. Sometimes she wasn't even sure if she really trusted Clint. With her life, of course. But never to hurt her? She'd given up on trusting anyone for that long ago.

"What do you regret, Steve?" She hadn't meant to sound reproachful. Steve's eyes turned to her face, almost surprised. "What do you know of regret that hasn't been something someone else has done to you? You regret things you've never had any control over. What have you ever done by your own free will that you now regret?"

"I told them yes, Natasha," Steve answered, readily as though he'd had the conversation rehearsed. "I could have walked away. But I was so damn set on being the hero I couldn't see the truth in any of it."

"Being the hero," Natasha shook her head. "You regret deciding to be the hero? I wish I could regret as much." Natasha regretting killing children, slitting the throats of innocents, pulling the trigger so many times simply because someone on the other damn side told her to. Again and again. SHIELD no better than the Red Room. How many of SHIELD's targets had been phony, created by the corrupt council's will and whim, decisions poisoned by Hydra's fangs?

Steve was looking at the ceiling. Natasha wondered how much of her thoughts had filtered themselves through the blinds covering her face.

"Can I die?"

Natasha watched his profile, his Adams apple bob as his voice burbled seemingly unconsciously up his throat and out of his thin, pale lips.

"Sixty-six years frozen in ice, Natasha. Shot in the stomach. I fell over two hundred feet. I should be dead. There is no damn reason why I shouldn't be dead right now. I don't even know if I age."

Natasha couldn't help it. She pressed her hand against Steve's, lying limp at his side above his covers. His flesh was warm. His fingers tensed slightly at her touch but he didn't pull away.

"Nothing lasts forever, Steve."

His eyes flickered to her face and away again. He swallowed. Natasha wondered if he could taste tears in the back of his throat.

She felt the sharp corners of the pendant of her necklace biting into the palm of her free hand, the one not holding Steve's. Steve's eyes followed her hand. She knew he was taking in the delicate metallic feathers and arrow point, knew what his mind was absorbing – exactly what Clint had wanted them to think when he'd asked Natasha if she'd wear it after New York, after Clint disappeared to recover with his family and he didn't want people to wonder.

"Is it wrong to love someone you can't have?"

Natasha blinked. Not much blindsided her these days but it took her a moment to discern if Steve had, indeed, spoken, or if her ears had simply zeroed in on a lyric from Wilson's iPod playing quietly in the corner.

Steve's eyes rose from Natasha's necklace and met her eyes. "What's so wrong about not being able to let go?"

"I don't know." Natasha swallowed, throat oddly dry. "Nothing, maybe. I don't know. It seems like the only thing that comes out of that kind of love is a whole lot of one-sided hurt." Her words sounded phony and shallow in her ears. She stopped talking, listening to Steve's voice rebound in her head.

"She's dying, Natasha," he said. "Just like everyone else. Everyone I knew is dead. Is it too much to wish I could have died with them? Lived a free, uncomplicated life full of unsurprising things like sewing machines and typewriters?"

His attempt at humor was weak but Natasha smiled anyway, squeezing his hand. She didn't say anything. She could read it all so plainly on his face.

"Why'd it have to be him, dammit? Why couldn't they have just left him in peace?" Steve's fist tightened around the sheets. She heard the tear of fabric as his fingernails ripped through with unconscious strength. "It's like they could see what would hurt me the worse – like everything Hydra's ever done was focused on making my life hell."

"You don't know he can't still come back, Steve," said Natasha softly. "Someone pulled you out of that water. Someone tried to save you."

"He's not coming back, Natasha," said Steve. "He can't possibly come back. Not now…not after everything." He swallowed. "God, Natasha, he didn't recognize me."

Abruptly, violently Natasha remembered the cool blue of Clint's eyes and the cruel sting of his fist against her flesh.

"You have to believe he can come back, Steve."

Suddenly Natasha was angry. Angry at Hydra. Angry at everything. Angry that she couldn't do anything to stop it – couldn't see it – couldn't have protected Steve from any of it. Kicking Sitwell off the roof had been one of the most satisfying things Natasha had done for a long time. The only thing that would have made it better was if she'd been able to lean over the edge and seen his broken body splattered on the pavement.

Steve looked at her and almost smiled. "Sorry," he said hastily. "I didn't mean to…well, you know. I didn't even ask you if you were alright when you came in."

Natasha swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. "Just two years in the twenty-first century and you're already losing some of that chivalry."

"So how are you really? Wilson told me about SHIELD's reveal. The press must be awful. I know how much you don't like to be noticed. I'm surprised you were able to get in here without a posse."

Natasha shrugged unassumingly. Despite her name plastered to every front page and news broadcast across America, it had still been surprising easy to slip in unobserved. All she had to do was act like she belonged. No one noticed anything out of place unless she let them.

"Won't be easy for you, either," she said, "once you're out from under these goons." She tossed a hand casually to the silhouette of the security guard through the window.

"That's something I didn't think I'd regret about the serum, but it sure was a whole lot easier getting lost in a crowd back then." Steve's lips raised half-heartedly into a smile and Natasha felt her own lips rising, something that was almost a chuckle rise up in her throat to choke her.

It was then that the door swung open behind her and Wilson came back in, clutching a bottled coke and a granola bar.

He stopped in the doorway. His eyes fixed themselves on Natasha's hand covering Steve's on the bed. Wilson rose both hands to shoulder height, palms outward, "My bad. I'll wait out in the hall."

Natasha pulled her hand away from Steve's. She saw Steve's smile widen out of the corner of her eye as she stood.

"No problem," she smiled. "I was just leaving."

* * *

Going underground meant only one thing, and that was bunking in the Barton's guest room for as long as they would let her. The hearings took a little over a month to completely wrap up and it was June by the time they finally let her leave DC – not that she was ever official told she couldn't, or should have even when they told her she could. She lost her "escort" at Reagan National and arrived on the Barton's doorstep on the eighteenth, welcomed by Lila's enthusiastic cry of "Annie Nat!" and peanut-butter scented kisses all over her face.

"Sitwell, Garrett," said Clint, shaking his head. Natasha watched him but didn't say anything. They had both been over it so many times in their own heads that it felt stale and worn-out by now, even though it was the first time she had heard it spoken out-loud by anyone in weeks. It was the first time they had had a moment to speak by themselves. Laura had taken the kids to the town to see a movie. It was raining out and a rumble of thunder rattled the plates in the cupboards. "I still can't believe it."

"Yeah," said Natasha, warm mug of coffee cradled in her hands, elbows braced on the kitchen table.

"So, I guess the real question is, what now?" said Clint. He was leaning against the counter, facing the kitchen that opened into the living room, the hallway that led to the front door. Natasha acknowledged that Clint's house was the only place she felt comfortable leaving watch of the exits to Clint.

She shrugged. The unsaid words hung tangible in the air between them, rain beating against the windows as Natasha watched Clint's eyes.

Clint stared at a stick-figure drawing Lila had made, stuck to the refrigerator door with Winnie the Pooh magnets.

"You know they'd probably never miss us," said Clint.

"What about the Avengers?"

Clint's eyes traveled up the fridge, to a snapshot of his family in front of a lake, Lila and Cooper in bathing suits, Clint's arm slung around Laura's shoulders. "Being perfectly honest I don't think they'd miss me much either."

"Clint," said Natasha, working hard to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "Is this still about –"

"It's not about Loki, Nat," said Clint, eyes landing firmly on Natasha's face. Even still, she wasn't entirely sure she could detect something of a half-truth in his voice. "It's just – I'm getting older. And so are the kids. It's been good, hanging around with them so much lately. I'd been thinking about dropping out of it for a while. SHIELD's just suddenly presented me with an excuse."

Natasha shook her head. A strand of hair she'd tucked behind her ear came loose and landed in front of her face. She never should have let it grow so long. She brushed her hair back again. "You can't be serious, Clint. How could you want to drop out of it now? Now that we finally know how great the stakes actually are. There's work to be done. If you and I don't clean up the mess who will?"

Clint grinned tiredly and – Natasha noted – dodged her question when he said, "Grown into quite the patriot, haven't we?"

Natasha cocked an eyebrow.

"Come on, Natasha," said Clint, and rolled his eyes. There was a guarded stiffness to his voice but Natasha knew she still had some room to push him. "It isn't like we're the only ones left."

"Steve is busy chasing ghosts. Tony is off doing God-knows-what. Bruce is a scientist, not an assassin. And Thor doesn't even live on this planet. Anyway, I say SHIELD should be responsible for cleaning up its own damn mess."

"SHIELD doesn't exist anymore. And I don't feel any obligations to keep representing it," said Clint rigidly.

"You don't mean that, Clint," said Natasha.

"Don't I?" Clint challenged. "This was never about loyalty to SHIELD, or to Fury or even to the Avengers. This was supposed to be about protecting the world – making it a better place for my family – not working as some half-assed covert agent for Hydra."

Natasha snapped her mug of coffee on the table and pressed her palms against the tabletop, eyes stuck on Clint's. "Don't you think I know that, Clint? Don't you think I know what this is about? How can you sit back now and not do anything? Watch those bastards walk away after they made a farce of your career – of your purpose?"

Clint shook his head, slow and heavy, "Natasha – this doesn't have to be our fight anymore. My fight anymore."

"So you're telling me you're just going to walk away? Let Hydra get away with it?" Natasha made sure there was no hint of anger in her voice. In fact, what she felt stirring in the pit of her stomach wasn't quite anger, more of a mixture of resentment, frustration and…something else…something that she was reluctant to call jealousy.

"Is that so wrong?" said Clint, spreading his arms. "You can't look me in the face and tell me you've never felt the same, Nat."

Natasha breathed slowly through her nose, smelling the rich, vanilla-sweet scent of her coffee. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I've felt that. But I've never let myself do it. And I won't. Not this time and not ever. Not until I see every single one of those damn snake heads cut off and crushed into the dirt."

Clint's smile only made one side of his lips quirk upward as he answered her. "You can't save the world by yourself, Nat."

"No, dammit, Clint, I can't." Natasha couldn't recall deciding to stand but only heard the scrape of her chair against the linoleum floor and felt the pressure in her calves and feet as she stood to face Clint across the kitchen, top of her head level with his chest. "I can't do this by myself. But I understand. I do. You've got something good here, Clint. I'm not asking you to give that up. I'd never ask you that. I'm just asking you for your help. Just for a little while longer, Clint. I need you. The world needs you. Maybe someday there will come a time when it won't anymore, but until then I'm asking you to please be there. Please, Clint."

Natasha clenched her teeth and stared into Clint's storm-cloud eyes, memorized the wrinkles that had formed at the corner of his eyes and creased his forehead, deepened around the edges of his mouth.

Clint looked over her shoulder, looking at the refrigerator again, tracing – Natasha knew – every line and color of Lila and Cooper's pictures, the family photographs, and cartoon magnets that covered its surface. There was an undertow too heavy to lift out of his throat as he sighed and said, "You're right, Natasha. I know. It's just I –" Clint's fists clenched around the lip of the counter, eyes not moving from their place fixed beyond Natasha's shoulder, out of her sight.

Natasha sighed. "I know, Clint. I know."

* * *

There was a spot of trouble in mid-summer in Dubai and Natasha arrived back on the farm at the dawning of September to find Laura and Clint busy repurposing the upstairs study into a bedroom, pulling Lila's discarded crib back out of the basement.

Clint said quite unexpectedly the second morning she got back, scooping grounds into the coffee machine, "I wanted to ask your permission to name it after you."

Natasha was sitting at the kitchen table. Laura was still in bed upstairs. Cooper was outside, bouncing a baseball off the side of the house with steady, rhythmic thwacks. Lila was watching Saturday morning cartoons with a bowl of cereal on her lap, spoon hanging limply in her hand, half-way to her mouth.

Natasha blinked, fingers pinching a piece off her muffin. "Oh…oh, Clint." She said. For a horrible moment she thought she had misheard him. He snapped the cap of the coffee maker into place and turned to face her, leaning against the counter, arms over his chest.

"I –" She swallowed and pulled her fingers away from the muffin, crumbs scattering across the table. "You don't have to…what would Laura say?"

"It was Laura's idea, Nat. I just happen to agree with her," said Clint levelly, staring at her without blinking, reading her every untraceable emotion on her face, she knew. The tears that sprung to Natasha's eyes were unexpected and warm.

"Oh, Clint," she said again, voice thick. She was aware that this was the first time she had felt like crying since all of it – Fury's death, SHIELD's betrayal, even Loki all those months ago.

Clint smiled at her. He pulled out a chair at the table and straddled it, reaching a hand across the table. His palm on top of her fist was warm and heavy.

"You're as much a part of this family as any of us, Tasha. I want you to know that."

His eyes were too blue, pressure of his hand on hers too near, breath to warm, and Natasha could not speak. It was early fall, and the leaves hadn't started to change color yet, and SHIELD may have disintegrated in a shower of sparks and blown-covers but Natasha was still part of something, something she'd never meant to be a part of, maybe, but for now she was going to let herself dwell on the peace of that knowledge instead of the pain.


	14. Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my attempt at smoothing out the awkwardly done romance in AoU. And revisiting (read: slightly altering) the scene in the Barton's guest room. If you've read my story "Exercise in Trust" the first part of this will be familiar. Also, the second part of this makes brief reference of my story "Miracles".

"Hey there, big guy," said Natasha when Bruce Banner flicked on the light of his room. She saw him start and fumble in the doorway eyes darting to where she sat, cross-legged atop his bed.

"Natasha, dammit," Banner said, putting a hand to his chest. She watched carefully for any glint of green in his eyes but relaxed when they remained a muted brown. "Don't do that!"

Natasha grinned and untangled her legs, swinging them over the side of his bed so her feet hit the plush carpet, but didn't stand.

"I have complete confidence in you, Bruce."

"Tell that to the Other Guy," said Bruce, but his face had relaxed. He stood in the open door as though reluctant to come in.

"I don't know. Maybe he could use a vote of confidence," Natasha answered.

Bruce smiled, leaned against the doorframe, and folded his arms across his chest. "How did you get in anyway? The door was still locked."

"I noticed that," said Natasha. "Not fond of visitors?"

"Not if they aren't going to knock," said Bruce evenly.

Natasha smiled, brushed a strand of hair off her forehead before she folded her fingers in her lap. "Took a page out of Clint's book – came through the air ducts."

Bruce nodded in a vaguely impressed way and looked upward to the ceiling, eyes finding the metal grate in the corner of the room, painted a mellow beige to blend in with the walls. He finally took a step into the room and swung the door shut with the heel of his hand. Natasha noticed the latch didn't catch, the door hanging on its hinges slightly ajar. Natasha wasn't sure if Bruce had done so intentionally. Giving himself – or perhaps her – an emergency escape route.

"Where has our archer been lately, anyway?" Bruce's eyes flickered over Natasha's face rather shrewdly. His voice was carefully level. "Both of you, in fact. It's been months since you've been around. Not since that business with Hydra – those interviews."

"We've both been keeping on the down-low," said Natasha. "Recalibrating." Natasha watched him carefully, his fingers entwined together, hanging in front of his waist, arms loose, fingernails well-groomed. She wondered if he was going to ask _Together?_ But when he didn't she wasn't surprised. Dr. Banner, like Captain America, was much too discreet.

"What about you?" Natasha continued. "What have you been up to? I've noticed Harlem is so far still intact, so…."

Bruce shrugged and walked over to the small mini bar in the corner of his room, all glistening wooden cabinets holding booze and crystal glasses. Stark certainly treated his guests well. Natasha had her own room in "Avengers Tower" as Stark was fond of calling it. She hadn't spent much time there – cool greens and silk curtains, sleek and seductive, inviting as it all was. Pepper must have done the decorating. Banner's sweet was done in earthy neutrals, simple and serene. The bed was soft. Pillows plush and warm.

"Wanna drink?"

"Thanks," said Natasha.

"Scotch and soda?"

"Thanks," said Natasha again, watching Bruce pull out the bottle and glasses, sprits the soda after pouring the liquor.

"I know what you're thinking," said Bruce, looking up and catching her eye. "Is it really wise for this guy to be drinking?"

The corner of Natasha lip dug into her cheek. "Wasn't thinking it, but now that you mention it. Have you ever Hulked-out while intoxicated?"

"Never been foolish enough to tempt fate," said Bruce, grinning. He brought her glass over and she accepted it with thanks. He walked back across the room and took a seat at the bar, looking at her levelly – almost unblinkingly – across the distance. Natasha had the impression she was being x-rayed, every movement carefully scrutinized for cracks in her shell.

"Clint doesn't drink to excess either," said Natasha. Immediately she wondered why she said it. She took a sip of her own drink, cool and tingly on her tongue. Good scotch. Another mark in Stark's favor. She knew Clint avoided getting drunk because of his father. She had no intentions of telling Bruce that.

Bruce looked over the lips of his glass at her. "Nor Steve," he said. "Granted, though, he couldn't even if he tried."

"So that leaves Stark," Natasha said, grinning.

"Tony does enough drinking for the lot of us," said Bruce. "Though I suppose we're forgetting Thor."

"Can gods get drunk?" said Natasha.

"I doubt any of our petty mortal liquor would be strong enough," said Bruce, "not for lack of trying, I'm sure, but it takes the stronger stuff of nectar milked from the clouds to wear down our Thor's constitution."

"True," said Natasha, and raised her glass. "To nectar and ambrosia. May all of life's vices be so sweet."

"Cheers," Bruce acknowledge her. "To the chief of sinner and the chief of sufferers and to those who live in-between."

Natasha let her eyebrows furrow in curiosity and waited for Bruce to take a drink before he answered her unasked question, "Robert Louis Stevenson. _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_."

Natasha nodded. "Cheers." She took another sip of her drink, holding it in her mouth for a moment, tasting the smoky sweetness on her tongue. She swallowed, looking at her glass in her hand instead of at Banner across the room. She could fee his eyes on her.

"Your door is twice as thick as the rest of the doors in this place," she said at last. "Was that Stark or you?"

Bruce put his glass down on the counter with a faint snap. "I told Tony I wouldn't move in unless he put up the proper precautions." He pointed to the top cabinet behind him. "Behind there – a tranquilizer gun loaded with enough drugs to take out a bull elephant in the height of musth. They're placed throughout the tower. Jarvis is instructed to bring them out, no questions asked, if there's ever the faintest hint of an incident."

"And you still don't think that's enough?" said Natasha, raising her eyebrows at the apparent lack of conviction in his voice.

"Frankly, no," said Bruce frowning, grabbing his drink again, taking a sip. "But we must have our Mr. Seek, however inadequate he may be." He tacked on as an afterthought. "Tony is working on a special suit. Started calling it the Hulkbuster until I asked him to name it something else. Calls it Veronica now."

Natasha smiled faintly. "Your idea again?"

"All human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone, in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil," Bruce quoted at her and changed subjects rapidly, "He's my namesake, you know. Robert Louis Stevenson."

"Ah, yes, I always wondered where the Robert came from. And where it went," said Natasha, blinking over her drink.

Bruce smiled wryly, "My father's name was Robert." He sipped his drink. "Bruce is my middle name. Easier to tell us apart that way."

"Well, well," said Natasha, "you're a man of many secrets."

"Something you sympathize with, I'm sure," said Bruce. "It's not easy being green."

"I heard Selvig was here the other day," said Natasha, "any particular extraterrestrial business I should know about?"

"You asking for Fury?" said Bruce, peering at her over his drink. "Or just making conversation."

That one did manage to catch her a bit off guard. She lowered her drink. "You aren't supposed to know about Fury, yet."

"Yes, well," said Bruce, "If the man can manage to keep Coulson alive I figured he'd be able to do the same for himself."

Sometimes Natasha forgot that Bruce was a genius level of scientist. Rationality was part of his repertoire. She accepted his explanation with a smile, easy and reassuring, and answered his earlier question, "Not to worry. Just making conversation."

"We were just catching up," Bruce replied. "It's been years since I've seen Erik. We worked together at Culver, you know."

"I did, actually," said Natasha. "Remember, I've read your file. Both of your files actually."

Bruce rose his eyebrows in something near resignation but didn't appear to be upset by this breach of privacy. Natasha wondered if he had read hers.

Bruce continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "We were talking about the Convergence. Why London? Whether or not there was more to the placing of prime meridian than just the location of the scientists. I've been communicating with Erik and Dr. Foster about it. Thinking about heading over there but…I don't know," Bruce shrugged, "too many cooks in the kitchen."

"Not flirting with Jane, I hope."

"I have no intensions of inciting the wrath of a hammer-wielding god," said Bruce. "Extra green muscle mass, besides."

Natasha laughed before saying, "You seem to be pretty busy with Stark lately, anyway."

Bruce shrugged again, "Nothing much, experimenting with some artificial intelligence models Tony's cooked up. Just a hobby really. It's best to keep him occupied. A bored Tony Stark is a dangerous thing."

"I thought we already had a very own artificial intelligence?" said Natasha, gesturing to nothing in particular, the walls and air that hid Jarvis' all-seeing eyes and all-hearing ears.

"Erm – yes," said Bruce, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't think Jarvis is quite speaking with me right now."

Natasha smiled, "Jealousy, really? Why, Jarvis, I didn't know you had it in you."

True to Bruce's word, the computer automated butler remained silent.

"We're trying to develop a more advanced prototype. Jarvis' big brother if you will. Well – not like Orwell's Big Brother."

"I wondered earlier why he didn't inform you of my presence in your room," said Natasha.

"Dr. Banner did not ask, Ms. Romanoff," said Jarvis from somewhere above them, faintly mechanical voice seemingly atypically stiff.

Natasha smiled and Bruce chuckled appreciatively. The both sipped their drinks.

"You been reconnecting with anyone else?" said Natasha. "You mentioned catching up with Selvig – any other collogues from, you know –" she tapped the bottom of her glass on her knee. "Before."

Bruce looked at her, eyes slightly narrowed. Natasha didn't look away, eyes widened innocently. Natasha could do innocent with the flick of a mental switch. One of her most convincing plays.

"No one else, no," said Bruce finally.

"What about that girl – General Ross' daughter?"

Bruce shook his head, chuckling. Natasha watched him for any sign of animosity or distress at the reminder of Elizabeth Ross, but noticed nothing. Then again, Natasha recalled, Banner was almost as good at hiding things as she was. "SHIELD really doesn't miss a thing, do they?"

Natasha met his smile. "Nope."

"So why are you even asking?" Bruce said. "Don't you already know about that, too, after reading my file?"

"We lost track of her after she stopped being a potential asset."

"After she stopped communicating with me, you mean."

Natasha inclined her head in affirmation.

Bruce looked across the room, to an abstract modern-art piece that Pepper must have picked out – a white canvass with a red square in the middle. Natasha had noticed Banner's room was rather empty of accessories and breakable knick-knacks. The only lamps in the room were fixed into the ceiling. Another precaution, Natasha wondered, or purely for aesthetic motives? She wondered why Bruce still had the painting up, whether he saw something he liked in its pale minimalism. She noticed that it did give the room an almost meditative, calming effect.

"She was engaged to a writer last time I heard." Bruce shrugged, "Don't know if she ever married the guy. Haven't seen her in years."

"One of those melancholic avant-garde types, probably," said Natasha and Bruce laughed. "Not nearly as stimulating as a nuclear physicist with a split personality."

Bruce shook his head but he was smiling. He had a shy, half-formed smile, like he wasn't entirely sure he had permission to be happy.

"Probably makes things pretty interesting in bed," Natasha continued, smiling teasingly.

"You know, I would have expected to hear a quip like that from Tony."

"I do believe you're blushing, Doctor."

Bruce raised his glass to his lips, noticed it was empty and stood from his chair to pour himself another one. He asked if Natasha would like more but she declined with a shake of her head.

She stared at his back, the blue button-down he had tucked into the belt of his pants. "Clint and I – we're not, well, we're not the way everyone seems to think we are." She fiddled with her necklace, unsure of the compulsion she had to tell him this.

He turned to face her, second drink in hand, eyebrows raised. "Well," he said at last. "You fooled me."

Natasha smiled, conscious of how stiff her lips felt, hoping that wouldn't translate into her mask of aloof irrelevance. She didn't say anything. She wished she had taken up Bruce's offer for a refill.

"Clint asked me if I'd wear it." She gave her necklace a slight tug, metal charm slightly moist from sweat against the beds of her fingers. "It makes it look like we belong to each other beyond what that means in the field. It makes things…less complicated."

"But you do love him."

Natasha didn't know if it was a question or statement. She didn't know which one would be worse. For a moment she wondered if she'd actually tell him the truth. "Love is…too simple for what I have with Clint. Our partnership requires a level of intimacy that bypasses physical or even emotional love. We have to know each other in a way that…it's like we exist as the same person, breathe, sleep, think as one. To say I love him is to say I love myself. I trust him like I trust myself."

Bruce rose one of his eyebrows. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"I figured someday someone would ask. I needed an explanation."

"An explanation of necessity, then? Or one of sincerity?"

"Can't they be the same thing?"

"Maybe," said Bruce. "But I've found they rarely are."

Natasha acknowledged him with a slight dip of her head. "Ever thought of calling her?" She asked. "Going out for drinks. Tell lies about the good old days?"

For a moment it looked like Bruce was going to answer but then a curiously guarded expression descended over his face. He put his lips against the lip of his glass but pulled it away without taking a drink.

"I give up," he said at last. "So what is this, Natasha?" Bruce spread his arms, palms facing upward in defeat, one hand still holding his glass, filled with scotch so that some of the ochre liquid sloshed against the sides and almost escaped. "Some sort of interrogation?"

Natasha cocked an eyebrow. She switched her glass to her other hand, cuffed her palm against her pants. "Maybe I just want to be friends."

"You always grill perspective friends?" Bruce answered, matching her raised eyebrow with his own. "Some kind of test, or something? Tell me, am I passing or failing?" She wasn't sure if she detected a slight hint of accusation in his voice.

She backpedaled. "Call it an exercise in trust, if you will."

"I know it's your specialty, Natasha, skirting the truth in artistic ways" said Bruce, "but, please, dignify me with a straight answer."

The game was up now. Natasha felt a sigh well in her throat but she didn't let her disappointment show in her face. It had been almost nice while it lasted, this caricature of casual friendship. But – like everything the Black Widow did – no means was ever without an end.

"I really did want to get to know you, Bruce," she answered him, keeping her eyes on his, keeping her face open, honest, confidant. "In-between saving the world, personal relationships can be lost in translation. But, yes, I admit it. I had another motive for coming in tonight."

Bruce didn't say anything. Natasha continued, "We've been talking – I'm sure you'll agree with us, too, Bruce – about your particular…assets for the team."

She watched his fingers stiffen imperceptibly around the stem of his glass. When he shattered it – that was when she knew she'd run for the door, still hanging slightly ajar, line of light from the hallway spilling across the carpeted floor.

Again he didn't say anything, just watched her.

"About ways you can get more of a handle on it," she said finally, almost wincing at how blunt she sounded, the ineloquence of her words.

"So you can hone me into a more effective weapon?" said Bruce. There was no anger in his voice, only faint resignation.

Natasha shrugged, "Weapon? No. So you can better protect the world, better do your job? Yes."

"When you first recruited me for this gig you told me it'd be for the science," said Bruce. Finally taking a drink of his scotch, sitting back down on his stool, all the way across the room from Natasha. His eyes were dark pinpricks of light in the distance.

"Bruce, you can do a lot of good – fight a lot of evil if you learn to harness your power."

"Power," Bruce shook his head, smiling, laughing almost, eyes not leaving Natasha's face. It was clear from his expression that he was nowhere near genuine amusement. "Is that what you call it? Power – like Thor's hammer, Steve's strength?"

"Power is given only to him who dares to stoop and take it," Natasha said, not blinking. "One must have the courage to dare. Dostoyevsky, _Crime and Punishment_."

Bruce nodded tersely, almost as if Natasha had said something crass. She could tell he was familiar with the quote. He downed the rest of his drink, snapped the glass on the counter.

"What did you have in mind?" he said. Interest. Interest was good. It meant he wasn't completely shutting her out.

"It's called the lullaby," Natasha launched into the explanation, grabbing what opportunity he presented her with. "Controlled hypnosis. Brainwashing only in the most rudimentary sense. Involves a trigger word, a verbal tranquilizer of sorts. Method they used in the Red Room sometimes when some of the girls went a little haywire, couldn't shut off again."

Bruce's eyes were heavy on her face. "And how exactly do we practice that?" It was subtle but it was there, a brief flash of anger in his pupils – she realized it was directed at her, at the mere suggestion she put herself in danger for him.

"In a controlled facility. You'll transform. First I'll stand somewhere you can see me but can't touch. Maybe behind bullet proof glass –"

"He isn't some kind of circus performer, Natasha," said Bruce, voice stiff. "He can't be _trained_. Believe me, I've tried everything. Nothing works."

"You haven't tried this."

"Why are you so certain?" he asked her, shaking his head – at her ignorance Natasha knew, her blind optimism apparently.

"Because it involves two people – it requires the reliance of a partner. Something yoga, meditation, and breathing exercises don't."

Bruce didn't say anything. He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at the painting again. Natasha looked, too, noticed it was a red rectangle, not a perfect square.

"All I'm asking is you give it a chance, Bruce. If it doesn't work – if you don't feel like it's worth the risk, one word from you and I'll stop."

"Alright then." He breathed slowly through his nose, looked away from the wall swiftly and caught her eye. There was something disarming about Banner's gaze, an openness to it that Natasha was unaccustomed to seeing – having worked and lived so near people who were trained liars all her life. "Where do we start?"

Natasha let herself half smile. She patted the bed beside her, quilt soft and cool beneath her palm. "First you learn to trust me."

* * *

Natasha had to admit, Bruce was a reasonable good-looking man, attractive in the endearingly bumbling, absentminded professor-like quality that hung off his messy curls and ill-fitting, rumpled clothes.

She watched him button up his shirt, oddly transfixed by the dark hair on his chest. She had seen plenty of men without their clothes on throughout her career but the way Bruce moved, with an almost bashful fluidity, somehow at the same time perfectly at ease with his body yet embarrassed by her presence, was practically erotic.

"The world just saw the Hulk – the real Hulk – for the first time. You know I have to leave."

"And you assume that I have to stay?" Her voice burned like bile coming up her throat. She could feel the cool metal of the gurney under her fingers. Everything was suddenly too sharp, too present, the room around her stifling – comforting drapes and wallpaper that she was so familiar with suddenly abhorrent. "I had this – um – dream. The kind that seems normal at the time, but when you wake –"

She didn't know why she was telling him this. She had just relived the deaths of the hundreds of children she had seen die, heard their screams mixed in the very close shattering roars of the Hulk's uncontrollable rage, felt their blood on her fingers like it had been yesterday.

"What was the dream?"

"That I was an Avenger. That I was anything more than the assassin they made me." Clint was right. She couldn't save the world by herself. She couldn't save the world at all.

"I think you're being hard on yourself."

"Here I was hoping that was your job."

Natasha almost asked him then, a question that had been nagging her in the back of her mind almost ever since she'd met him. Ask him what it felt like, knowing he was incapable of committing suicide – if it was just one last card dealt unfairly by life or if it was some kind of a comfort.

He was so near. She could see the droplets of water left over from his shower clinging to his eyelashes, see the blushed-red whites of his eyes. He looked exhausted. She was exhausted. Every muscle in her body ached with a persistent, throbbing pain. She could smell the toothpaste on his breath, see the tiny bead of blood on his jaw where he had nicked himself shaving.

"What are you doing?" He breathed, voice warm on her face.

That, indeed, was the question. What was she doing? Why was she telling him this? Love. Was this love? No. Love did not feel this way. Love was desperate aching, yearning, unquenchable longing and this was not love. This steady, pulsing need, the dry pit in her stomach, the numbness in her chest that was so close to feeling nothing at all was not love.

"I'm running with it…with you." She tried to focus on his eyes, tried to remember they were brown instead of stormy blue but the colors seemed to have blended together. For a wild moment, in the middle of her intoxicating exhaustion, she wasn't entirely sure who was standing in front of her: Bruce or Clint. "If running's the plan. As far as you want."

"Are you out of your mind?" Bruce bowed his head, tore her fingers away from his warm cheek and turned his back on her, digging his knuckles into his eyes.

Natasha's chest seized, curling around the cool metal blade plunged into her chest. Look shocked, she told herself, and widened her eyes, face rolling through the emotions as a matter of course, casual instinct melding into true emotion in a way that it was impossible to discern one from another.

If it wasn't love than what was it? Manipulation? The Black Widow was good at manipulation, bending the world to her will and whim, twisting men around her fingers like strings of a puppet.

"I want you to understand that I'm –" She wanted him to understand. Understand what? Understand that this wasn't real? That nothing was real. She wanted it all to stop. In this moment she wanted it all to cease, to disappear, to find her own corner of the world where she didn't have to be Black Widow – agent or assassin – didn't have to worry about Ultron – about saving a world that couldn't be saved. Didn't want to be Natasha. Didn't want to be Natalia, Nat, Tasha – didn't want to be anyone anymore.

"Natasha – where can I go? Where in the world am I not a threat?"

Natasha recognized that look of desperate certainty on his face – new it as intimately as the blood of children stuck between her fingers, the same blood that she had been trying to wash off for too many years now. It would have been so much easier if she had realized it from the start: it never came off. Nothing she ever did could make her clean again.

"You're not a threat to me."

"Are you sure? Even if I didn't just – there's no future with me." How could Natasha possible let him understand that was she was asking wasn't about _this_. "I can't ever – I can't have this. Kids. Do the math. I physically can't."

Bruce saw himself as both Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, all rolled into one in an interminable loop, one indeterminate from the other. A Jekyll and Hyde living in eternal bondage with one another, inseparable. Natasha had told Clint they'd entered an unfamiliar world of monsters and magic, but that wasn't true. There had always been monsters.

For a wild moment Natasha almost felt like laughing. It rose in her throat until it choked her, burned the inside of her mouth and turned into a sob.

"Neither can I. In the Red Room," every word twisted the knife in her chest so much deeper. Soon, she knew, it would be buried so she could never again draw it out by the hilt. "Where I was trained, where I was raised, they have a graduation ceremony. They sterilize you. It's efficient." She spoke robotically, automatically, rehearsing words she had spoken so many times to herself in her head. "One less thing to worry about. The one thing that might matter more than a mission. It makes everything easier. Even killing."

It was the first time she'd ever admitted it to anyone. No one, not Clint or Fury, not even her records knew it. The Red Room had taken everything from her. Taken away this last capacity to create with a carefully precise, callously detached medical procedure. "You still think you're the only monster on the team?"

Natasha watched the surprise, the shock, the hurt filter through Bruce's face like a broken projector. "So we disappear?" He said finally, voice unconvinced.

 _Is that so wrong?_ Clint had asked her, in the wake of SHIELD's betrayal.

"We keep moving," said Natasha approaching him again, tentatively like one would approach a startled animal. She wasn't asking for a family. She wasn't asking for any of what Bruce thought she was asking for. "And we don't play circle of life we just play."

"Natasha," Bruce was shaking his head. Damp hair flinging tiny droplet of water through the air, landing in a disheveled mass atop his forehead. "You're not –" He stopped himself. Perhaps he had realized how dangerous close he'd gotten to telling her that she _didn't understand_. "You can choose whatever you'd like, Natasha," he said finally. His voice was hypnotic, almost noxious, as sickly sweet as any narcotic. "To stay or go, to kill or show mercy, what to do, where to stay, how to live –"

"Who to love?" she interrupted him, finding his bleary, liquid brown eyes, the creases of care and fatigue in his face. For a moment she chose to ignore the irony of him offering her comfort when he refused to accept it for himself.

He paused, for a moment, corner of his lip pulling upward before it dropped just as quickly into a straight line. "Or to love at all."

Natasha looked at the floor, the same carpet that she had sat on many a night, running through her ballet exercises before climbing into bed, listening to Clint and Laura in the room next-door, the water dripping in the faucet as the bathtub drained, Lila and Cooper stirring in their beds across the hall.

"I'm sorry," said Bruce, pushing his hair away from his face, fingers coming back wet and glistening. Sun filtered through the soft curtains in the window. She could hear someone chopping wood on the front lawn.

"Don't be," she said. She turned. She was wearing Laura's robe – the one she wore every time she showed up so unexpectedly she had neglected to bring her own. It had stopped smelling of moth balls years ago. "Well…well I guess, I – uh – better clean up, then."

"Water's cold," said Bruce behind her.

Natasha shut the door behind her, heard the latch click into place. _No shit_.


	15. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short but I've been sitting on it for weeks and figured I just needed to get it out. Thank you all who've read, reviewed, followed, or favorited my story. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed it!

The screen door swung open with a creak and Natasha didn't need to hear the heavy shuffle of Clint's footsteps to know it was him.

"God, it's beautiful out here, Clint," said Natasha without turning around, hands cradling the bottle of beer she'd fished out of the refrigerator before coming out. She breathed the cool September air and scanned the grassy lawn that blead into the wall of pine trees, sun hanging heavily near the tips of the trees, spilling long shadows across the lawn.

"I could get used to it," said Clint, coming up to stand beside her, propping his elbows on porch banister.

Natasha could have, too, if she'd ever let herself get used to anything, but by now she'd learned that things were too apt to change much too unexpectedly. It was best to keep moving; that way she'd avoid getting tripped up.

But it was certainly nice, having somewhere to take a break.

"Steve sends his regards," said Natasha.

"Good old Cap," said Clint.

Natasha smiled faintly and took a swig from her beer. "You know you gave him quite the surprise, wife and kids and all. He always thought me and you were together."

"Well, it's not like we ever did anything to discourage that particular train of thought," Clint answered.

That was true. Natasha still had the necklace, even though she had stopped wearing it some time ago. She let her eyes flicker over to catch a glimpse of Clint's profile beside her. She thought she saw a hint of gray near Clint's temples but it might have been a trick of the failing light.

"So what's your take on all this registry business, Nat?" said Clint. His tone was light but Natasha could detect an underlying pitch of sobriety in his voice.

Natasha sighed. "I don't know. It all seems too early to tell right now, seeing as it's still in preliminary stages."

"You think Tony will really endorse it?" said Clint. He'd already made up his own mind – Natasha could tell – Clint was just trying to feel her out, make sure they were on the same page on this one. Natasha tried to smother the faint trickle of unease she felt – knowing Clint had to even make sure of such a thing.

"It sure seems like it," she answered.

"How's Steve taking it all?" said Clint.

Natasha sighed again. "Lately Steve has been talking a whole lot about the holocaust."

Clint shook his head, made a skeptical sound in the back of his throat. "I doubt it will ever be quite that serious."

Natasha smiled. "Everything's serious with Steve."

"Don't I know it," said Clint wryly.

"Even so," said Natasha, not smiling anymore. "I'd hate to see the fallout between Steve and Tony when whatever this thing is finally becomes official."

"They helped save the world together twice, Nat."

"Come on, Clint, friendships stronger than Steve and Tony's have been torn apart because of politics." Natasha took another drink of her beer.

"So what about you?" said Clint. "You never really answered my question."

Natasha turned to look at Clint, smiling. "What, how do I feel about politics? I'm technically not an American citizen. I really haven't got much say in it." Clint laughed shortly. "What about you?" Natasha added. "How do you feel about all of this?"

"I'm retired, Nat. I don't have to worry about a registry. Besides, no one knows where I live."

 _Stark does_ , Natasha almost said it but didn't. There wasn't anything ominous in any of this. Not yet, anyway. Even so, it was disconcerting, this curious unwillingness to tell Clint just exactly how she did feel about the registry – just as he appeared to feel equally as reluctant. "Nothing ever actually disappears from the internet, Clint. SHIELD's list is still out there, with your name at the top."

Clint sighed heavily beside her but didn't answer. Natasha took another drink of her beer and then balanced the bottle carefully on the banister. She wondered how much longer they'd be able to deny it – this registry business was dangerous, and more than one pair of friends might be damaged in its processing.

"So," said Clint, changing the subject. "What about…any luck locating Banner?"

Natasha felt something inside of her wrench but she kept her expression neutral. It had been several months since he'd left. Natasha missed him. She missed him more than she'd expected; but she also felt strangely and calmly resigned. It simplified things, not having to worry about relationships. There were some surprising advantages to celibacy.

"No. He just…disappeared. Fury still seems to think he's somewhere around Fiji but…" Natasha picked at a bit of chipped paint on the banister. "I don't know. He's living completely off grid, no internet or phone or – I've checked everything but I guess the only message he's interested in sending is that he doesn't want to be found."

"I'm sorry, Nat. He would have been…you would have been good for each other."

"Yeah, well," Natasha smiled and didn't look over at Clint. _Missed our window_ , Banner had said. Natasha wondered, not for the first time, if there had ever been any window to miss. "I'm no stranger to disappointments. I'll get over it. I…keep busy. That helps. With the team and all. There's lots to do."

"How are they shaping up?" Clint changed subjects mercifully.

Natasha shrugged, hair falling off her shoulders. She'd started straightening it again. She didn't know why. She wasn't a fan of spending time better spent elsewhere on her appearance. But she'd felt inexplicably like she'd needed a change, any kind of variation that might somehow release this strange, pent up pressure that now seemed to permanently reside in her chest. She'd used to work it off by sparring with Clint.

"Alright…I guess. Rhodes and Wilson respond well to Steve, probably because they're used to taking orders. Maximoff is surprisingly…adaptable. She seems pretty enthusiastic about our cause. Almost manic, in fact. I guess I should watch that."

"Take her out for coffee for some big sisterly advice," Clint suggested with orange light from the setting sun glinting off his teeth as he smiled. "You know a lot about putting past sins to rest."

"I shudder to think of someone ever taking my advice," Natasha snorted and continued, "Vision has had a strangely calming effect on her. Not exactly sure what's mechanical on him and what isn't, but Wanda doesn't seem to mind. As long as the parts that count are human, I guess. Personally, I think she's just searching for someone to replace her brother."

"Yeah," said Clint softly.

For a moment Natasha hesitated on the brink of saying _it wasn't your fault_ , but she knew both she and Clint had heard it spoken enough that it had lost any at all truth in its words long ago. If, in fact, it had ever held any at all.

"We're working on trust, currently," she said instead, turning her head to stare over the lawn, watching the melting sunlight glint off the hood of Clint's tractor and the spokes of Cooper's bicycle lying in the grass near the driveway.

"Ah ha," said Clint, "the hardest lesson of all."

"It's a choice, like anything else," Natasha answered. "You taught me that, Clint."

"I'm glad you listened to at least something I said," Clint answered, leaning forward over the banister, back arched. Above them moths began to circle the porch light, batting their wings futilely against the bulb and casting gigantic, fluttering shadows across the floorboards and over Clint's hands, folded in front of his chest.

"You should think about coming back," Natasha said guardedly. "Might be able to teach the new recruits a thing or two, as well."

Clint breathed through his nose shortly in something that resembled a laugh, but he didn't answer right away. "Nah, I'm having too much fun not having people trying to kill me for once to come back."

"Yet," Natasha corrected him.

Clint laughed outright then and Natasha continued before he could speak, "Come on, Clint, you and I both know you miss it. You've got avenging in your blood. There's nothing you can do about that."

Clint's smile was perhaps laced with a bit of sadness when he answered her, staring ahead at the end of the driveway where it disappeared into the tangled shadows of the pine trees. "I've got my family in my blood, too. I've got to be here for them, Natasha. I made a promise to myself when I was younger that, if I ever had kids, I wouldn't let them grow up without a father like I was forced to. I owe it to them and Laura to be present." Natasha smiled, lips stiff, and looked away. "But you're right, I do miss it."

His words hung heavily on the cooling night air and were swept away almost reluctantly by the soft breeze.

Clint sighed, "In the end, I guess it all comes down to the choices we make."

"That reminds me of something Banner told me," Natasha said softly, before she could think. She hadn't wanted to talk about Bruce.

"Oh yeah?"

"He just…he said we can all choose to be anything we want in our lives. What we do, how we act, who we kill or to kill at all. Even choose whether or not to love." Ironically enough, the man who had taught her it was alright for her to choose to forgive herself had never given himself the same chance.

"Good advice," said Clint, irises reflecting the setting sun skimming the tops of the surrounding pine trees and bleeding into the gray-blue sky.

"He was wrong," Natasha said, surprised at how much bitterness seeped through her voice, marveling at her lack of control. "The Red Room would tell us that, too. To shut down our emotions. To not allow ourselves to love because it would compromise us. That love was childish and insincere, would make you weaker." Natasha's throat ached. She could feel Clint's closeness acutely, could feel the warmth of his body on her arm. "You can't choose to simply not feel. I know. I've tried. You can't choose not to love, you can only run from it. And – and you can't choose _who_ –" Her voice broke. A part of her, a piece still lingering in the past, was disgusted at her weakness. She bit her lip and sucked in a trembling breath through her nose. "No matter how hard you try."

She could hear Clint's soft breathing below the stirring of the wind that jingled the wind chimes Lila had made for her mother's birthday last weekend.

"And it doesn't make you _weaker_." It burned her throat like whiskey, came out of her lips sounding like a curse.

The boards of the porch creaked under Clint's shoes as he shifted. The last orange rays of the sun reseeded across the domed sky as the sun slipped fully behind the tips of the trees, bathing the lawn with shadows.

"I'm sorry, Natasha," he said, and at last Natasha thought he might have known, might have finally guessed it.

She shut her eyes, feeling the cool breeze dry the tears caught on her lashes. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Maybe she'd just chop it all off.

"It isn't your fault, Clint."

He put her arm around her then. It was heavy and warm over her shoulders, palm slightly damp against her sleeve.

"You're my best friend, Nat. I want to see you happy."

She breathed deeply, trying to ease the pounding of her heart, the twisting, gaping something in her stomach.

"So are you, Clint," she leaned into his embrace until her elbow rested against his ribcage. She could feel his heart beating under his shirt. Like Clint said, all of it, in the end came down to their choices. "And I am."

* * *

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a collection of short, interconnect one-shots that weave together the Laura-Clint-Natasha paradox in all the glorious technicolor imagery that it wasn’t but should have been. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Review if you did…or didn’t. Thank you!  
> \- f17 :)


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